Shriller Than All the Music
by lioness84
Summary: The story is simple; the story of an Emperor and of the Hero who fought for him. But in reality, it was much more than that. It was the story of a power-starved orphan and a vengeful refugee. It was the story of everyone they met along the way. It was the story of thieves, murderers and mages. But in the end, it was the story of family - of blood, and of the kind you get to choose
1. Prologue: The Prisoner

**A/N: Okay, so this the revised version of a story I published on here before, so if it sounds familiar, that's why. This story will cover the Thieves Guild, Dark Brotherhood, the main quest, and much more, Be prepared for warped timelines and multiple points of view. Thanks for reading my story, and don't forget to show some love and review :)**

**Oh yeah, I don't own Oblivion or the Elder Scrolls. I'm not affiliated with Bethesda Softworks, either.**

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Prologue: The Prisoner

Rain's Hand is appropriately named. The sky above the Imperial City was releasing torrents, matching those trickling down the pretty Bosmer woman's face. She hurried through the Elven Gardens District, her wet shoes slapping the cobblestones determinedly. The boy she dragged with her glanced around nervously. "Mother, don't you think—"

"Hush, Enilroth," she hissed, pausing at a street corner and glancing both ways before charging straight ahead. "For gods' sakes, man, open those gates," she snapped at the guard, who hurried to comply, amazed at her brashness.

"Mother, you're making a scene!" Enilroth's face blushed the deep burgundy of profound teenage embarrassment as he struggled to catch up with her. He was right, of course; although the streets were mostly deserted, the few people out in the downpour were glancing their way in curiosity. But the woman was oblivious to their eyes. She had grown used to stares and whispers, as well as her son's attitudes. As she reached the next set of gates, however, she seemed to run out of steam.

"Going in, or do you plan to stand there all day?" the guard asked with a smirk. His companion rolled his eyes.

"Stop fooling around and help me with it," he ordered. The first guard obliged, but as they passed by, he muttered under his breath.

"Wood Elves." At this, Enilroth stiffened, but his mother clamped a hand of iron on his arm.

"Don't." As they walked up the path, her grip gradually lessened, until it fell away entirely. She took a deep breath, and Enilroth noticed that she was trembling.

"Come on, Mother," he urged. "We don't want to have come all this way for nothing." She gave him a weak smile.

"I know." She sighed deeply. "Let's go"

They walked across the Imperial Prison courtyard and entered the offices. A young Imperial man in Legion armor glanced up as they entered. "May I help you?"

"My name is Hasathil. I've come to see about my daughter? She was brought from Bravil yesterday." At this, the man's forehead creased in a frown.

"Ah, yes. The little Bosmer girl. Please, sit down." He gestured to a bench along the wall as he pulled several pieces of parchment from a desk drawer. Hasathil nervously obeyed, Enilroth following suit. He glanced over them for several minutes, an awkward silence heavy in the air. Finally, he looked up.

"Well, we have a rather unique situation here," he announced.

"Meaning?" Hasathil demanded. He considered her cautiously.

"Well, she killed eight people," he said slowly. "Including County Bravil officials, a priestess of Mara, and children. And, as I understand, she fought the guards when they came for her." He sighed. "If you have nine thousand septims, your daughter can walk out of here today. Granted, there will be other complications, given the circumstances, but…"

Hasathil let out a bark of sardonic laughter. "I don't even have half of that. I have recently found myself out of work."

"Well then." He shook his head. "I was afraid you would say that."

Hasathil's blood ran cold. "Wh-what do you mean?" Tears began to form in the corners of her eyes once more.

"Captain Phillida suspects Dark Brotherhood involvement."

"_Dark Brotherhood?_" Hasathil's voice went shrill. "Dear gods, she's seventeen years old! She hasn't even finished school yet! If you only knew what she's gone through! She only did it for her brother! She was trying to protect him! She loves him! She is the kindest, most loyal person I know! And who is this _Phillida_ to accuse her of being part of the _Dark Brotherhood_!"

She was hysterical at this point. She half-rose from the bench, her hands balled into white-knuckled fists as she snarled at the guard. "_Mother_!"

Enilroth's mortification was evident, as he worriedly glanced at the guard in alarm. However, man's expression contained only sadness.

"Ma'am, listen to me. I have met your daughter. I have spoken with her in person. I agree with you, she is not the Dark Brotherhood type. However, the killings were, well, perfect. A professional assassin could not have done better. And furthermore, she does not show the slightest remorse. Captain Phillida's entire career has been defined by his search for the Dark Brotherhood. He has survived three assassination attempts, and he has grown increasingly paranoid. He…" Here, he paused. "He is pushing for execution."

Hasathil gasped, the blood draining from her face. She swayed slightly, as though she were about to faint.

"Ma'am? I don't intend to upset you, but you must be aware of the entire situation." He gave her a sympathetic smile. "Executions rarely occur. They require a unanimous vote from the Elder Council, and then approval from the Emperor. But this case is different. Captain Phillida remains convinced that the Dark Brotherhood had a hand in this, and he is determined to make an example of her. If the Council will not allow execution, he will not release her. Ever." He then turned to Enilroth. "I understand that the charges against you have been dropped, with the death of you accuser."

"Yes, sir," Enilroth mumbled. "I didn't do it, though. Several of us were by the canals, and I slipped on the dock. I fell against him, and he fell in. It was an accident. And he was fine."

The guard nodded. "I understand. A shame it had to end the way it did, though." He studied Enilroth thoughtfully, than leaned closer to him. "Your sister cares about you very much, you know." His voice was barely a whisper. "An attempted murder conviction at your age would have had serious effects on your life. Eight murders will certainly ruin hers. Don't let what she did for you be in vain."

Enilroth peered at him uneasily, confused.

The guard smiled. "You seem like a capable young man. Make something of your life." His armored hand shot out, ruffling Enilroth's hair. Then he turned back to Hasathil.

"Ma'am, I am truly sorry. I wish I could do something to help, but I just joined three weeks ago. I literally have no say in the matter." He bowed his head. "I am sorry."

Hasathil seemed to have regained her composure somewhat. "Yes, of course. Thank you for your time." With that, she rose and sailed out of the office, Enilroth trailing after her. She briskly strode back into the city, until the prison was out of sight, and they were safe inside the Market District. Then she broke down and collapsed on the sidewalk. "Oh, why, _why_?" she wailed, as a fresh wave of sobs overtook her. Enilroth slowly sank down beside her and embraced her, attempting to offer whatever little comfort he could. They stayed this way for hours, until a chill seeped into their bones, and beggars began to peer suspiciously at them.

They ended up eating at The Feed Bag, something Enilroth would have enjoyed were it not for the grim mood surrounding them. He couldn't believe he would never see his sister again. She had been there his entire life, and had always protected him. She was the strong one of the family, always putting on a brave face. He needed her. His mother needed her. He glanced over at Hasathil, who was clutching a bottle of ale. "Weeee'll stay in the ci'y tonigh," she slurred. He nodded, but his thoughts once again returned to his sister. She would have never let Hasathil get this drunk.

Enilroth managed to get Hasathil to an inn in the Elven Gardens District, with a sign over the doorway that read Luther Broad's Boarding House. Inside, it was dimly lit, and mostly empty. The only people present were an older man standing behind the counter and another figure seated in the corner. "Hello!" he greeted. "Luther Broad. What can I do for you?"

"Is there a room available?" Enilroth questioned, struggling to support Hasathil. Luther took one look at her and chuckled.

"If you got ten septims." He chuckled again, as Enilroth tried to remove the money pouch from Hasathil's belt without dropping her to the floor. "Right up the stairs. First door on your left." As he turned to go, Enilroth happened to glance at the other man in the room. He was a Breton, with a thin, sallow face and a dark, beady pair of beetle-like eyes. Their gazes met briefly, in that moment, Enilroth felt as if a cold hand had grasped his stomach. The sensation was gone before he had time to completely register it, so he wasn't sure if he had had imagined it. All he knew was that he wanted to be out of that room as quickly as possible. He half-dragged Hasathil up the stairs, nearly dropping her in his haste. "There's no fire, son," Luther called after him, but he wasn't paying attention. He burst into the room and slammed the door shut behind them. He laid Hasathil down as gently as he could, but he felt too wired to sleep. The stress of the day had worn his nerves thin, and the encounter with the Breton had shaken him more than he would have liked to admit. He shuddered at the thought of the man's cold eyes. Maybe he would just sit by the window for a while.

_Enilroth had a dream. In it, he was flying—no, floating—over the vast expanse of a bubbling, orange lake. The sky was thick with smoke, and flames erupted from the shore in every direction. Far in the distance he could see a grim black tower, with a harsh yellow light glaring at the top. By its glow, he could see a figure emerge from the darkness. It stood firm in the shadow of the tower, a sword clenched in its upraised fist. As he drew closer, he realized it was a female, and she wore a cuirass emblazoned with a wolf's head. She was intent on the tower, so intent that she did not notice the hulking red creature with four massive arms approaching her from behind. He tried to shout to warn her, but his throat was parched by the heat, and he could make no sound. He tried again. This time, she turned, and he got his first look at her face, his eyes widening in shock. It was his sister. Her face registered surprise as well as she stared at him, still oblivious to the creature until it snatched her up by the throat. "No!"_

"Enilroth!" He awoke with a start. He was lying on the floor, the faint light of morning filtering through the window. He rubbed his bleary eyes and looked up at his mother. "Are you all right?" She frowned anxiously. "You cried out."

"I think so." He felt disoriented, as if he was still back on that fiery lake. "Are you?"

Hasathil smiled thinly. "I have a terrible headache. Don't ever let me do that again."

"You wouldn't hear no. There was no stopping you," he admitted, and the tension between them eased somewhat. She sighed.

"Then I shall attempt to exercise better self-control in the future," she announced. "Shall we go?"

The main room was empty as they passed through, except for an old Redguard muttering to himself. Enilroth was secretly relived at not having to see that Breton again. They walked along the Green Road in silence, until Hasathil broke it.

"I've been thinking…" Her voice trailed off.

"Yes?" Enilroth prompted. She was clearly still feeling the effects of last night's ale.

"I think we need a fresh start. A change of scenery. What would you say to a move? Kvatch, perhaps? Or maybe Anvil?"

A thousand protests formed on the tip of his tongue. They couldn't abandon their house, he didn't want to leave his friends, Bravil was _home_. But then he realized she was right. Bravil wasn't home anymore. They were now outcasts, no longer welcome in the community. There was nothing left for them there but shame and painful memories.

"I think that's a terrific idea, Mother," he agreed. "Let's do it." Neither of them spoke another word for the rest of the journey.


	2. Chapter One: Midnight

**A/N: I don't own the Elder Scrolls or Oblivion.**

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Chapter One: Midnight

_Midnight_. Even the very word itself is beautiful and mysterious. I lay flat on the dirt floor, arms folded behind my head as I gazed up at the two full moons, just barely visible through the bars on the high window. I inhaled deeply as a light breeze wafted through my cell. It brought with it the fresh scent of grass, as well as a hint of something floral. It brought to mind a memory: a young girl perched high in the tallest trees deep in the forests of Valenwood, as if she were part of the sky itself. A harsh cackling suddenly broke through my reverie.

"Well now, such a pretty little Wood Elf. You're a little far from the forest, huh? Looks like your days of woodland frolicking have come to a tragic end. To go from the gladed realm of Valenwood to a rat-infested hole like this…how very sad. Those walls must feel like they're closing in on you. Pretty soon you'll go mad, and the guards will cut your throat just to stop the ranting. That's right. You're going to die in here, Wood Elf! Die!"

I rolled my eyes in annoyance as I abruptly sat up, bits of debris clinging to the tangled mass that was my hair. "Shut up, Valen," I snarled. But he only giggled.

"That's right, Wood Elf. The guards are coming. For you!" He once again fell into a fit of maniacal laughter, and I felt an urge to rip open the bars and strangle him.

It was nothing new. Valen Dreth had occupied the cell across from me since I had arrived here in Rain's Hand. He had been here for eleven years, and his imprisonment had only served to sharpen his tongue. Eleven years of solitude had seemingly left him in dire need for entertainment, for as soon as I was put here, the insults began. At first I had been terrified of him, but after a few weeks I had realized that he was quite unoriginal, irritatingly so. Having listening to "Get ready to die, Wood Elf!" for so long, my fear was replaced with a mixture of frustration and contempt. It had been at least four months, maybe five. I wasn't exactly sure. Keeping prisoners informed of the date wasn't exactly high on the Legion's list of priorities.

Sometimes, I could overhear the guards talking, and from snippets of their conversations, I gathered that a majority of the Elder Council was in favor of execution. As silly as it sounds, I was hoping for it. I wanted to die. Life was not meant to be lived from a cage. All one needed to do was look at Valen Dreth to figure that out. It was unfortunate that I had made an enemy of Adamus Phillida, but it couldn't have been helped. Either way, it would make no difference. If he couldn't have me put to death, he would keep me in this prison for the rest of my life.

The hours wore on. The guard came to collect our bowls. Valen tossed a few more jeers my way. I watched the moons for a while longer until they rose out of sight. I tried to go to sleep, but I was unsuccessful. The faint claws of madness were scrabbling at my mind again, and I felt restless. I slowly drew patterns in the dust coating he floor, trying to think of anything but the four walls boxing me in. As annoying as they were, Valen's insults were more truthful than I'd like to admit. The walls did indeed feel like they were closing in on me, and if the Imperial Executioner didn't kill me, a fed-up guard would.

My ears perked up as I heard a faint sound. I moved closer to my cell door, frowning in concentration. It sounded like armored feet scuffling on the stone floor, but the guards weren't due to make their rounds for another hour at least. But then I heard a voice that definitely did not belong to a guard.

"My sons. They're dead, aren't they." It was a statement, not a question. The voice was slow and thoughtful, tinged with sadness.

"We don't know that, Sire. The messenger only said they were attacked." This was a woman's voice, speaking in hushed tones. "Right now, my job is to get you to safety," she continued. The footsteps grew louder, and four figures came into view and stopped right in front of my cell. They were guards of some kind, but definitely not Legion. Their armor was far less bulky and more elegant, and they carried themselves with a fierce pride not often seen in Legion drones. The last one, however, wore a set of fine robes, and seemed far more passive than his companions.

The Breton woman glared at me. "What's this prisoner doing in here?" she snapped. "This cell is supposed to be off-limits!" I cringed at the sharpness of her tone.

"Usual mix-up of the watch. I, uh—" The Imperial in armor uncomfortably tried to explain, but she brushed him aside.

"Never mind. Get that gate open."

The Redguard turned to me. "You, prisoner. Stand back. Over by the window." I didn't need to be told twice. I was already backing away. I pressed myself against the wall as they entered my cell, the stones jabbing me in the back. Glancing over in my direction with a frown, the Breton pressed on a jutting stone, and a doorway opened where it had been solid moments before. I felt my jaw drop in amazement. There had been a secret door there all this time, and I hadn't had the slightest idea.

They filed through the opening, but as the one dressed in robes passed, he paused and looked directly at me. "You! I've seen you," he gasped. "Let me see your face." Was he talking to _me_? I slowly peered up toward him, and sure enough, his gaze was intently locked on me. Hesitantly, I stepped forward and lifted my head. His eyes widened. "You are the one from my dreams. Then the stars were right," he murmured, more to himself than to me, "and this is the day. Gods give me strength." That creeped me out a little. This strange man I had never seen before in my life had dreamed about me? I forced myself to speak up.

"I-I'm sorry, sir," I stammered. "I don't understand."

"Assassins attacked my son, and I'm next," he explained. "My Blades are leading me out of the city along a secret escape route. By chance, the entrance to that escape route leads through your cell." At the word "Blades," I froze.

"Then—you are…"

He nodded. "I am your Emperor, Uriel Septim. By the grace of the gods, I serve Tamriel as her ruler. You are a citizen of Tamriel, and you, too, shall serve her in your own way." At this, I frowned.

"I go my own way." Oh gods. That came out more boldly than I had intended. I glanced at him fearfully, but he only smiled gently.

"So do we all. But what path can be avoided whose end is fixed by the almighty gods?"

"Why am I in jail, then?" I asked, suddenly defiant. I had been accused of crimes I did not commit, and I was being forced to live out the rest of my life at the mercy of a monster. Was I supposed to believe that was the gods' plan?

"Perhaps the gods have placed you here so that we may meet," he responded evenly. "As for what you have done…it does not matter. That is not what you will be remembered for." He sounded so certain that, for a moment, I almost believed him. His bright blue eyes stared deeply into mine, as though he could see into my soul. "Come with us. Your destiny is bound up with mine, and with the fate of Tamriel itself," he urged. With that, he turned and followed the Breton down the tunnel.

"Looks like this is your lucky day, prisoner," the Redguard commented as he passed. I felt my breath catch in my throat. Lucky didn't even begin to describe it.

Inside the tunnel, the air was stale and damp, as though no living creature had been present for quite a long while. I vaguely wondered for exactly how long, but my mind was preoccupied with other, more important tasks, such as not tripping over my own feet and crashing into the Redguard. The architecture was clearly Ayleid, though. I recognized the high arches, deep stairways, and pale stone from lessons on the history of Tamriel. If I remembered correctly, the Ayleids had built what would come to be known as the Imperial City sometime in the Merethic Era, but I could be wrong. I had never had much interest in poring over history books.

My thoughts were interrupted by a shout from the Breton. I looked up to see several figures in red and black armor racing towards us. The Blades drew their weapons, and met them with a furious clash. From my vantage point atop a stone dais, I could see very little of the fight. I didn't want to be any closer, though, for fear of getting caught on the end of one of those spiked maces. I could just barely see the Redguard and his attacker, furiously exchanging blows. The assassin forced him towards the stairs, and he stumbled. For a moment, it looked like he was finished, but he managed to bring his sword up and force it through a crack in the assassin's armor. It dissolved in a cloud of red, leaving a limp, crimson-robed figure to flop to the stone floor.

"Are you all right, Sire?" shouted the Redguard. "We're clear for now." The Imperial appeared from behind a pillar, re-sheathing his sword.

"Captain Renault?" questioned the Emperor.

"She's dead. I'm sorry, Sire, but we have to keep moving."

I hopped of the dais as the group moved forward. I attempted to enter the doorway the Redguard had just led the Emperor through, but the Imperial blocked my way, smiling nastily.

"Stay put, prisoner. Don't try to follow us." And with that, he slammed the door shut in my face. I grabbed the handle and yanked on it with all my might, but it was tightly locked, and would not budge. Wonderful. I slowly scuffed my way back to the steps, and sank down on the last one, feeling like I had been cheated. Freedom had been so close. I had almost been able to taste it. I considered heading back towards my cell, but decided against it. Either way I was trapped.

I was abruptly forced to end my self-pity when I heard a scratching sound. I stiffened, glancing wildly around in fright. I should be the only thing down here. Was it my imagination, or had the assassins returned? My fears were confirmed when I noticed one of the walls was shuddering, as though something were smashing into in from behind. Something was coming through there, and I highly doubted it would be friendly. I spotted Renault's katana lying a few yards away, and I dashed towards it. I hoisted it up with both hands like a claymore, but my arms buckled and the tip clanged awkwardly off the floor. Okay, maybe that wasn't such a good idea. I looked back at the wall. Puffs of dust were coming off of it. I needed a weapon, and I needed one _now_. But then my eyes caught Renault's corpse, and I saw that she had been carrying a shortsword. I ran forward and snatched it, just as the wall crumbled, and a couple of rats the size of dogs burst through.

I didn't even think; I just acted on instinct. The sword seemed to move of its own accord, slashing the first rat across the face, effectively blinding it. As it squealed in pain, the other one leapt towards my face. Again, I let the sword do the work. I ducked, at the same time bringing the sword up so the rat ended up impaling itself. The other seemed to have recovered from its shock, and was snarling in my direction. I swung the sword about like a madwoman, and managed to slice through its throat. Sighing with relief, I sagged back against a pillar. That had been far to close. I began to giggle, even though there was nothing to laugh at. Maybe the underground fumes were messing with my head. Still laughing, I considered the sword. It was nothing special, just an ordinary steel shortsword, worn with use. Regardless, it was a good weapon, and it had served me well. "I christen thee Rat's Bane," I said solemnly, then choked back another fit of laughter. Inwardly scolding myself, I examined the hole left in the wall. It appeared to lead to some kind of cavern, but it didn't really look natural. Could it be some kind of alternate passageway? I stepped through with a shrug. Anything was better than waiting around for the guards to show up. Or for the assassins to come back.

I quickly discovered what the cavern was—home to a colony of goblins. I slunk though the tunnels, pressing myself against the walls as though I could become shadow itself. I managed to make it through without incident. Much to my relief, I found myself on a ledge, back in the Ayleid section of the subterrean labyrinth. Then I heard voices, and the Emperor's entourage came into view. I was debating whether or not to make my presence known, when another group of assassins emerged, engaging the two remaining Blades in combat. The Redguard seemed to be gaining ground, but then another assassin appeared behind him. Again, I didn't think so much as act on instinct. I threw myself from the ledge, using my momentum to drive Rat's Bane into the assassin's neck. The armor collapsed, and we struck the ground. Hard.

For a moment, I couldn't breathe. The assassin's body had broken my fall, but it still felt as though every single one of my bones had been jolted. When I was able to catch my breath, I glanced up at the Redguard, who was staring down at me with a peculiar expression.

"Damn it, it's that prisoner again!" shouted the Imperial. "Kill her! She might be working with the assassins!"

"No." The Emperor spoke calmly, with a quiet authority that even the ranting Blade had to obey. "She is not one of them. She can help us. She _must_ help us." He beckoned towards me. "Come closer. I'd prefer not to have to shout."

I disengaged myself from the assassin's body, kicking it roughly aside before walking over to him. "They can not understand why I trust you. They've not seen what I've seen," he said. But I couldn't blame them. I had been wondering that myself. "Listen. You know the Nine? How they guide our fates with an invisible hand?" His attempt at an explanation was wasted on me.

"I'm not on good terms with the gods," I said bitterly. I could feel a deep frown creasing my face.

The Emperor nodded. "No matter. I've served the Nine all my days, and I chart my course by the cycles of the heavens. I know these stars well, and I wonder…which sign marked your birth?"

"The Shadow," I replied. That was another piece of evidence Phillida had held against me, as if my birthday could determine whether or not I was guilty.

"The signs I read show the end of my path," he said. "My death, a necessary end, will come when it will come. But your stars are not mine. Today the Shadow shall hide you from destiny's cunning hounds."

This didn't sound good. "Where are we going?" I asked cautiously.

"I go to my grave," he told me. "A tongue shriller than all the music calls me. You shall follow me yet for a while, then we must part. He then fell silent with a sad expression, then turned and followed the Imperial down the passageway.

"Here." The Redguard jostled my elbow. "You may as well make yourself useful. Take this torch." He handed it to me. "I'm Baurus, by the way," he said, "and that's Glenroy." He gestured toward the sulky Imperial. "Thanks for saving my life back there," he added, lowering his voice.

I wasn't sure what to say, so I just smiled and nodded. We silently filed through the gloomy halls of the fallen sorcerer-kings. We encountered a group of assassins once more, but Baurus and Glenroy fought them off easily.

"Not much further now," Baurus informed me as we approached a gate. Suddenly, Glenroy cursed and kicked it angrily.

"It's been barred from the other side! A trap!" He was absolutely livid; his scarlet face full of bulging veins

"What about that side passage?" asked Baurus, pointing.

Glenroy grunted. "Worth a try. Let's go!" He hurriedly ushered us over, only to discover a dead end.

"They're behind us!" Glenroy shouted. The two Blades dashed out of the room, but Baurus paused.

"Stay with the Emperor. Guard him with your life." Then he was gone, and I was alone with the Emperor. Surprisingly, his demeanor was strangely calm. We stood together silently, listening to the noises of battle, when suddenly he turned to me.

"I can go no further. You alone must stand against the Prince of Destruction and his mortal servants. He must not have the Amulet of Kings!" he said, pressing something smooth and heavy into my hands. "Here. Take the Amulet. Give it to Jauffre. He alone knows where to find my last son. Find him, and close shut the jaws of Oblivion."

Just as I opened my mouth to ask him what he was talking about, a panel in the wall slid open, and an assassin burst through. The Emperor fell before I had time to register what was happening. As I stood, frozen in shock and horror, the assassin wheeled on me. I screamed as loudly as a small child, throwing myself to the side to avoid a crushing blow from his mace. The mace slammed into the floor, and he cursed as he tripped over my sprawled body. As he struggled to regain his balance, I freed Rat's Bane from my side and jabbed at his knees and ankles. A cry of pain informed me that I had made contact, but he managed to twist around and kick the sword from my hand, rendering me weaponless and pinned against the wall. I took a deep breath and prepared for the killing blow, but apparently, his armor was not well suited to the sort of maneuver he had just performed. Arms flailing, he tipped over backwards, and then there was an all-too familiar burst of red. I picked myself up and stared down at the corpse, hardly believing what had just happened. He had fallen onto Rat's Bane. My trusty little sword had impaled him through the throat. I suddenly felt my knees begin to tremble. Perhaps the Emperor had been right about the Nine after all. _The Emperor!_

He lay still in a pool of his own blood. No sign of the fatal wound was visible, and his features were peaceful. He knew he was going to die, and he had accepted it long before this, I realized. Still, I felt tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. He had been kind to me. He had treated me humanely, the first time anyone had in months. Oh gods. I should have been paying attention. I should have been faster. I should have been stronger. I should have done _something_.

Baurus appeared in the doorway, and I immediately wiped my eyes. "Talos save us," he gasped. He knelt beside the Emperor's body, then turned to me miserably. "We've failed. _I've_ failed," he said simply. He looked so forlorn, I felt even worse than before. Suddenly, he frowned, as something caught his attention. "The Amulet! Where's the Amulet? It wasn't on the Emperor's body!"

I suddenly remembered the Emperor's last words. "He gave it to me," I said slowly. I braced myself for the flood of accusations, but instead, Baurus only looked thoughtful.

"Strange. He saw something in you. Trusted you. They say it's the Dragonblood. Flows through the veins of every Septim." He paused. "Did he say why?"

"I must take it to Jauffre. He knows where to find the last heir." I repeated the instructions, hoping he would know what to make of them.

"Another heir?" He frowned. "Nothing I've ever heard of, but Jauffre would know. He's the Grandmaster of my Order. Although you would not think so to meet him, he lives quietly as a monk in Weynon Priory, near the city of Chorrol. That's where you'll find him. I'll stay here and guard the Emperor's body." He produced a key, which he handed to me. "Take this. You'll need it for the last door to the sewers. It's full of rats and goblins, but from what I've seen of you, you'll do just fine."

As I turned to leave, I realized I had forgotten something. "Here." I handed him Renault's katana. Although I had no use for it, it had seemed wrong to leave it behind.

He took it as though it were a long-lost friend. "Thank you for recovering this. I'll see it receives a place of honor in the halls of the Blades." I nodded, and walked towards the opening the assassin had come through. "You didn't tell me your name," he called after me.

I paused, turning back to him. Of course he would want to know the name of the person entrusted with this task. Of course he would. "I'm—" I quickly cut myself off. No. To use that name would be both stupid and dangerous. Phillida hadn't been kidding about making an example of me. That name was both well-known and feared across the province. "Lily. My name is Lily," I stated firmly. However, he saw right through my bluff.

"That doesn't sound like a Bosmer name," he said suspiciously, narrowing his eyes.

I chuckled mirthlessly. "Who said it was?" And then I climbed through the opening and disappeared into the shadows.


	3. Chapter Two: Homecoming

**A/N: Two chapters in one day? I'm feeling generous.**

And I still don't own it.

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Chapter Two: Homecoming

The rotting stench of the sewers made me choke, stinging my eyes and burning my nose. I stumbled forward blindly—and almost tumbled off a set of stairs. _Focus_, I ordered myself. I wanted to go back and tell Baurus there was no way in Oblivion that I would go through here, but I simply covered my nose and mouth and lurched further into the sewers. If I was hoping the smell would get better, I was sorely disappointed. For I found myself in a chamber that had a _river_ of waste running through it. I could feel a gagging sensation starting back in my throat, but I clamped my jaw shut. I was not going to vomit. I crept over a bridge that crossed the sewage, trying not to look down. I reached the other side safely, and sprinted through the tunnels, away from that horrible place.

I emerged to the most glorious morning I had ever seen. Of course, I had spent the past several months in prison, but I was certain that anyone would agree that today was especially beautiful. The sun sparkled on the crystal blue surface of Lake Rumare, and illuminated the white marble of an Ayleid ruin on the opposite shore. The birds were beginning to sing, and everything felt warm and alive. I felt a sudden wetness on my face, and was surprised to discover I was crying. I was such a sentimental idiot. Laughing in spite of myself, I took a few steps toward the lake. The water looked so inviting. I hadn't had a bath since before I was arrested. On a sudden impulse, I shed my clothing and jumped in, shrieking out loud at the sudden chill. Apparently, it was still too early for the sun's rays to have heated the water. I quickly grew accustomed to the temperature as I splashed around, but I was careful not to go in past my waist, for I didn't actually know how to swim. Growing up, we were landlocked, and the only water I ever came close to was the shallow stream that flowed past our home. It would have been nice to have some of my mother's lavender-scented soap, but for now, it was just a relief to scrub four months of grime out of my hair.

When I was finished bathing, I hauled myself out of the water and up onto some massive rocks. I gazed out over the water, feeling like a mermaid. I stretched out, letting the sun warm me from head to toe as I thought about what to do next. Today, it would probably be best to go home. I would see my family, eat a nice meal my mother would cook for me, and sleep in my own bed. In the morning, I would awake refreshed, rent a horse, and ride to Chorrol. I would give Jauffre the Amulet, and return to Bravil to get things straightened out at the Mages Guild hall, where I was supposed to start as an associate this fall. I didn't really want to be a mage, but the Mages Guild was the only opportunity for an average citizen to pursue higher education, aside from joining the priesthood. Besides, I was somewhat interested in Illusion, and I had always had a knack for Alchemy. Technically, I hadn't actually finished school, but I didn't foresee that being a problem. I had finished all my work; I was just putting in time when I had been arrested.

Reluctantly, I climbed off the rocks and got dressed. I hated to put my filthy clothes back on again, but I consoled myself with the thought of my chest of clean clothes waiting for me at home. Maybe I would even have a ceremonial burning of my prison garb. Once again finding myself laughing at nothing, I began searching around for a landmark. The looming presence of White Gold Tower let me know I was still on the City Isle, but I wasn't sure exactly where. Squinting up at the sun, I noticed it was to my left when I faced the tower. So that meant I had to go right to reach the bridge. From there, I should be able to follow the Green Road south, which should lead me right to Bravil. At least I had paid attention in geography.

It got me there, all right, but it took far longer than I had expected. I was lucky, though; a young woman traveling alone is easy prey for bandits and wild animals, even if she has a weapon. By the time I was crossing the bridge to the city gates, it was nightfall and I was exhausted. I hadn't exerted myself that much in a long time, and they barely fed us in prison. As I approached the gates, I was half worried that I would be arrested on the spot, but the guard barley glanced at me as he tugged open the gates. The city was dark, except for the windows of Silverhome on the Water, which were glowing brightly as usual. I stumbled through the streets, my feet aching and my eyes drooping. I was so tired. Relief washed over me as I reached my mother's house. I had despised the second-story apartment from the first moment I saw it, but right now, I had never been happier to see anything in my life. I started to climb the stairs, but paused. There was something that wasn't quite right.

My mother loved flowers. Back in Valenwood, she had an enormous garden in which she spent most of her time. In Bravil, however, there was no room, and the soil was all wrong, so as a substitute, she grew flowers in planters and placed them on each step. However, the steps were bare. I frowned. She would take on the Legion, the Fighters Guild, _and_ the entire damned Dark Brotherhood before she'd let anything keep her from her precious plants. Had something happened to her?

I bounded up the stairs, fumbling for my key before remembering it had been taken from me in the Castle Bravil dungeons. Sighing with frustration, I impatiently rapped on the door. When there was no answer, I knocked harder. Still, no one came to let me in. The house was strangely dark. There were no lights shining from the windows, although no one in my family ever went to bed this early. Something had to be wrong. I pounded harder as I grew increasingly frantic. Suddenly, the door flew open to reveal a Bosmer woman. A woman who was not my mother.

"Who are you?" I demanded, taken aback.

The woman glared. "I could ask you the same thing. How dare you disturb me at this hour?"

I blinked in confusion. "This is my mother's house. What are you doing here?"

But the woman just laughed. "I'm afraid not. I bought this house two weeks ago. The Count said it's been empty for months. Now get off my porch, you insolent hussy, or I'll call the guards!" With that, she slammed the door shut in my face.

For a moment, my mind went blank, every thought sucked away. Then I felt a twist in my stomach, as though all my mixed emotions were swirling around inside. And then the wave broke over me, and I burst into tears. I clomped down the stairs with legs like lead and fled towards the canals, not knowing where to go. I rushed down a moldy set of stairs and collapsed on the slimy deck at the bottom, curling into a ball. I was in hysterics. I was alone. I was trapped. I had nowhere to go. My family was gone. I didn't know where to find them. I didn't even know where to start looking. I was lost. My family was gone.

_Focus!_ I commanded myself. _You're losing control. _But the panic was overtaking me. Just then, I caught sight of something through my blurred eyes. Something glowing red.

The Amulet. I had forgotten all about. It had fallen to the deck, and as I picked it up with trembling fingers, it seemed to glow brighter. An odd feeling came over me, as though I were floating away. I was surrounded by low, whispering voices, their murmurs blending together into one. _"Lily, look at me," _it said in a familiar, soothing tone, and suddenly, the Emperor stood beside me. _"Your destiny is bound with the fate of Tamriel. You alone must stand,"_ he told me gently.

"I—I can't," I whispered, ignoring the fact that I was talking to a dead man. "I'm scared. I can't do this alone."

His face was sympathetic. _"You will never be alone,"_ he said seriously, _"Though your journey will be long, and there will be blood and death before the end. You must stand."_ I looked up, and noticed how young he suddenly looked. His lined face was smooth and his silver hair was dark; only the brilliance of his eyes remained the same. _"Come to me,"_ he urged. He was starting to fade away. _"I need your help. We all need you."_ His voice was merely an echo…

And then the amulet was simply a lifeless jewel, and I was a ragged girl flopping around on the ground and talking to herself. I sat up, my head reeling. I wasn't sure if the vision I had just experienced was a message from the gods or an imaginative hallucination, but either way, I had to stop acting like a child. It was time to think clearly. If they were dead, they would be buried in the graveyard. I stood, taking a deep breath, and walked across town to the Great Chapel of Mara. I crept around to the back, wishing with all my might that no one would come out and recognize me. The gate creaked loudly when I opened it. I winced, but if anyone had heard it, they didn't come to check. Thanks to the pleasant Bravil climate, most of the headstones were crumbling and moldy. However, there were several that looked recent. Heart pounding, I examined each of them, then paused, overwhelmed by a sudden mix of emotions. None of the names belonged to my family, but still, I knew each of them very well. After all, I had put them there. Perhaps I should have felt guilty, broken down in front of the graves and begged for forgiveness. But I didn't. I…wasn't sure _what_ I felt. I started to back away, then jumped as I felt an odd prickling at the back of my neck. But there was no one. Only the Lucky Old Lady stood silently in the center of town, staring forlornly into the night. I shuddered, and hurried away as fast as I could.

The few persons inside paid me little mind as I entered the Lonely Suitor Lodge. I slumped down at a table in the corner, where I waited until morning. Throughout the night, I drifted in and out of a restless doze, nodding off and jerking awake whenever my chin hit my chest. When dawn finally crept through the window, I rose stiffly and wandered outside. The place I was headed was not yet open for business, no doubt, but for my purposes, I shouldn't have any problems.

The Fighters Guild was strangely quite as I entered. Neither raucous shouts nor clanging metal greeted me. "Hello?" I called uncertainly. I jumped as a head popped around the corner.

"Oh. Hello," the Breton greeted lamely. "What can I do for you?" His expression matched that of a kicked puppy.

"I'm trying to find a woman who works here. Or did, rather. Her name is Hasathil, and she's a clerk."

At my words, his frown deepened. "Oh, Talos save us," he groaned. "Come with me please." He led me to a back room where a desk sat, threatened to be buried under the immense stacks of paper littering it. He gestured towards it wildly. "You see this? This is what I've had to deal with since she left." He slumped against the wall massaging his temples. "I'm only an apprentice, so I always get stuck with the jobs no one else wants. You know, washing dishes, scrubbing floors, and now, this." He shook his head sadly. "I'm a fighter. I don't do bookkeeping. This has gone terribly wrong."

I nodded. "I see," I said slowly, "and when exactly did she leave?"

"Rain's Hand," he responded glumly. "That's when Tadrose fired her."

I closed my eyes and braced myself. I knew what was coming next. "And _why_ was she fired?"

His eyes lit up. "Because of her daughter," he explained, in a sort of half-whisper that implied this was a taboo topic. "She was a quiet thing who kept mostly to herself, until one day, she went completely mad and killed a whole bunch of people. Tadrose was worried that employing her mother would reflect badly on the guild." He looked at me oddly. "Are you all right?"

_Forgive me, Mother. _"Yes. I'm fine." I cleared my throat quickly. "Thank you for your time." I turned to go, but he grabbed my arm.

"Are you sure? I didn't mean to scare you. She's locked up now, in the Imperial City. Don't worry; it's safe here."

I smiled thinly and squirmed out of his grasp. I was starting to feel like I had somehow slipped into someone else's skin, like I had dropped out of my own life, and I was really still back in prison. But that was how it was supposed to be wasn't it? I was going to leave my old life behind and start fresh. But as I strode up the bridge to the castle, I realized that no, that wasn't what I wanted. I wanted to slip back into my old life as though the past several months had never happened. However, that seemed to be becoming less and less likely.

I felt nervous as I entered the castle. I wasn't sure if it was the memory of the last time I had been here, or the fact that I was going to see the Count dressed in rags and stinking like a sewer. A Khajiit woman dressed in green brocade and silk greeted me as I approached, looking at me as one would a dead fish.

"What do you want? I'm rather busy," she said harshly.

"I would like an audience with the Count," I said formally, in as snotty a tone as I could manage. Let her think what she wanted of me.

She snorted. "Well, go on. He's right there." She nodded over her shoulder. "_Good luck with that_," she added under her breath as I walked away.

However, upon coming face to face with the Count, I suddenly realized that her contempt was not directed toward me. The Count was slumped sideways on his throne, his clothing stained and his breath reeking of alcohol. He had dark rings around his eyes, and it looked like he hadn't shaved in several days. He looked up at me lazily.

"I suppose you want something. Spit it out already."

"Sir, I was wondering if you could tell me something about a particular house? The one across from the Fighters Guild, on the top floor?" I tried to keep my tone respectful. Drunken lout or not, he was still the Count.

"It's not for sale. Should have come two weeks ago. I could have sold it to you then," he said idly.

"No, it's not that," I explained. "I was wondering how long it had been for sale before that."

He shrugged. "First Seed maybe? I don't know," he said. "Dro'Nahrahe!" he called to the Khajiit. "How long was the house across from the Fighter's Guild for sale?" I could have sworn I heard her growl.

"Rain's Hand!" she yelled back. "Right after that girl was taken to the Imperial City!"

The Count nodded, as if this explained everything. "Of course. See, the woman who owned the house had this daughter—"

"Oh, enough," interrupted Dro'Nahrahe. "She's heard it before. Haven't you?" she asked, turning to me.

I nodded, really not caring to hear any more about it. "Do you know where they went?" I asked.

"Why would I know that?" he asked, obviously irritated.

"I thought maybe she had mentioned it?"

"You though wrong. Now get out of here. You're wasting my time." He waved his hand dismissively, and I hurried down the steps and out of the castle.

I wandered back through town for a while, before settling on the steps of the Fair Deal. I buried my face in my arms, feeling more dejected than before. It was time to face the fact that I would never be able to go back to my old life. That girl was no more. I needed to put her out of my mind. From now on, there was only Lily.


	4. Chapter Three:The Murderess Many Talents

**A/N: Hi, everyone! Sorry it took so long to update, but my life has been completely crazy lately. Plus, this chapter took forever to write, because of the multiple points of view. I wanted each character to have his/her own voice, so let me know how that worked out. Thank you to the people who reviewed, favorited, and added this to alerts. It means a lot :)**

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Chapter Three: The Murderess' Many Talents

_Jean-Pierre Lemonds_

"No!" the Altmer howled. He lowered his voice considerably when every head in the room turned his way, but his tone retained every bit of its sharpness. "You're doing it wrong! How many times have I told you? Don't brush the crumbs onto the floor." He gave the Bosmer girl a harsh shove, pushing her back into the wall, then proceeded to wipe down the table himself.

Jean-Pierre Lemonds shook his head and reached for his mug. He had called Silverhome on the Water home for eight years now, and Gilgondorin only seemed to grow more and more frustrated as time went on. It was common knowledge that he ran the inn out of a sense of duty towards his deceased parents, but Jean-Pierre wondered why he continued to put himself through the misery it caused him. Some sense of Altmer pride, he assumed.

But these days, he seemed far moodier than ever. Losing his temper in front of customers was hardly normal behavior; neither was roughing up serving girls. Jean-Pierre watched the girl carefully over the edge of his mug. She stood next to the table hesitantly, chewing fiercely on her lower lip. Their eyes met, and she quickly looked away. Gilgondorin finished with the table and wheeled on the girl, his tall frame looming over her.

"There! You see? It's not that difficult." Jean-Pierre didn't hear her murmured reply, but whatever it was, it seemed to enrage Gilgondorin. He struck her across the face, and began screeching at the top of his lungs. "You impudent little wench! Get out of my sight! _Get out!_"

The girl obeyed, nearly knocking over a chair in her haste. She sprinted from the room, and a moment later, the front door slammed, rattling every timber in the building. The chaos was followed by silence, and Jean-Pierre realized he wasn't the only one intrigued by this exchange. There was an awkward clatter as the patrons resumed their meals, pretending the incident hadn't occurred. Gilgondorin's face turned bright red, and he, too, rushed out of the room. Jean-Pierre shrugged and turned back to his game.

He considered himself rather good at checkers, but the Khajiit he was playing was a master. The agreement had been the best three out of five, and he had already lost two. If he lost this fourth game, he'd be broke.

"Come on!" his opponent gloated in a heavy Elsweyr accent. "What are you waiting for? Make your move!" Jean-Pierre glared at him, but only received a toothy smile in return. Very carefully, he reached over and scooted his piece forward.

"Ha!" The Khajiit was grinning like a madman now. "You are a fool, Breton! You play right into my paws!" Jean-Pierre watched sadly as his last few septims disappeared into the folds of the Khajiit's filthy blue robe. Now he couldn't even afford another beer, much less another game. Bored, he wandered out of the dining room and approached Gilgondorin, who was moping behind the counter.

"Everything all right, Gil?" The Altmer's only response was an icy glare. Jean-Pierre sat down at the counter as his long-time friend slammed around stacks of plates. He knew Gilgondorin would give in to his impulse to vent. It was just a matter of waiting it out. After a few minutes, his patience paid off.

"It's the serving girl," he commented shortly. "She's just…impossible." He sank down next to Jean-Pierre, clutching his head with both hands. "She's lazy and stupid—and you know what she just said to me?" By now, his voice was shaking with rage. "She insulted my mother!"

Jean-Pierre burst out laughing. "It's not funny!" Gilgondorin barked, but his mouth curved into a smile of its own accord, and soon he, too, was guffawing heartily. "Well, maybe it was," he admitted, dabbing at the corners of his eyes. "She was a character, wasn't she?"

"The terror of all Bravil schoolchildren," Jean-Pierre agreed. He took a swig of beer from Gilgondorin's mug. "Very…difficult." And with that, they were once again choking with laughter.

When they had calmed down again, Gilgondorin sighed. "I don't know," he said sadly. "Lately things have just seemed…_wrong_. You know what I mean? Ever since the Emperor's death. It's as though a shadow has fallen across Tamriel."

Jean-Pierre sighed. He knew only too well what Gilgondorin was talking about. Trivial as it was, he had not been so badly beaten at checkers in at least thirty years. It wasn't just that, though. He had also noticed the sense of gloom that filled the air. The two sat in silence for a few moments, each brooding over his own thoughts. Eventually, Gilgondorin rose. "Well, enough talk. I do have an inn to run, you know." He disappeared back into the dining room. Jean-Pierre stood as well. It had been a week since the assassinations, but talk of them still made him uneasy. He headed towards the door, deciding that some fresh air would do him good.

He stepped out onto the porch, taking in deep gulps of cool evening air. He caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned to see two figures seated at the opposite end, deep in conversation. The first he recognized as the serving girl, her eyes looking red and puffy, as though she had been crying. The other was an Argonian woman he was certain he had seen around town before. What was her name? City something? City-Swimmer! She appeared to be giving the girl instructions of some sort, for the elf wore an expression of concentration and would nod every few minutes. Whatever they were discussing, they seemed to reach an agreement of some sort, for they both stood and parted ways. A nearby streetlamp flared to life, and for a moment, Jean-Pierre had a clear view of the girl's face. As she melted into the darkness, a flicker of recognition swept over him. He was certain he had seen her somewhere else before.

_Nerussa_

Nerussa's heart leapt as the door to the inn creaked open. For the past week, Byron had been in Bruma, on some kind of official Legion business. He hadn't been sure how long it would take, but he didn't think it would be very long. However, disappointment settled over her as a lone girl entered and stumbled up to the counter. "Could I have some water, please?" she wheezed. She was breathing heavily, and strands of hair were sticking to her damp face.

"Of course!" Nerussa quickly produced a stone mug, filled to the brim. The girl gulped it down greedily in a single swig, and set the mug down with a thud.

"Thank you," she said, smiling brightly. This display of manners took Nerussa by surprise. The poor of Cyrodiil were not especially prone to be so polite. Nor were anyone else in the City, for that matter. Weye was technically a separate town, but the only people who passed through were going to or from the City. All were in a hurry, none were civilized company. This girl, however, seemed different.

"So what brings you to Weye?" Nerussa asked, trying to keep any prying note out of her voice. "The City, I assume?"

The girl nodded. "I need to get to the Waterfront District. I'm trying to find the garden of Dareloth."

Nerussa's forehead creased into a frown. Somehow, she couldn't imagine this quaint little girl in the Waterfront. "Really?" she asked skeptically, a single eyebrow arching. "Why is that?"

She shrugged. "I'm not sure, really. Some lady told me to go there." Nerussa exhaled slowly. This girl was either extremely naïve or very, very simple.

"You're just going to follow a complete stranger's directions? Are you aware of what kind of place the Waterfront is? The City Watch will deny it, but it's dangerous. There are all kinds of predators lurking there." The girl's face suddenly hardened.

"Maybe it's stupid, but I don't have anywhere else to go." Her voice had an edge to it, but it was barely a whisper. Nerussa suddenly realized this girl was no beggar. Well, whatever she was running from, she didn't seem that bad of a person. Maybe this situation could work out well for the both of them. She made an impulse decision.

"Would you like to work here, for me?" she offered. The girl immediately brightened.

"Really?" Nerussa nodded.

"I can't afford to pay you much, but I can at least give you food and a place to stay."

"Thank you!" The girl's dark green eyes were earnest. "I mean, I'd be glad to, but…thank you so much. I'm a good worker. You'll see, you won't be sorry."

But although Nerussa wasn't exactly sorry, she did not see. Although Lily, as she learned her name was, had the best of intentions, she was rather a hopeless case when it came to housework. She cleaned tables, washed sheets, and scrubbed floors without complaint, but Nerussa often found herself going back and doing it herself. Three days after her arrival, Nerussa found herself rewashing every single dish Lily had done that morning. Her frustration was building, but then the door swung open, and it all melted away. There stood Byron, looking handsome as ever. She flew into his arms as if it had been a thousand years since they parted.

A little while later, in an upstairs bedroom, she pulled herself out of his embrace, sniffing the air cautiously. A sharp scent of burning was in the air. Wrapping herself in a sheet, she crossed the room to the door and cracked it open, only to be greeted by a billow of smoke. Coughing, she batted at it, clawing her way through the thickness.

And there was Lily, beating the charred remains of tonight's roast with a broom. She turned with a sheepish grimace, but she froze and her jaw dropped, her face turning bright red.

Nerussa's own face flamed, as she remembered that she was clad in only a sheet. An embarrassed cough from behind her informed her that Byron had followed. She didn't need to turn around to know that he hadn't bothered to clothe himself.

She could feel herself screaming, but the roaring in her ears drowned out the words. Whatever they were, they were enough to subdue Lily. The girl nodded and slunk out of the inn, her gaze fastened securely on the ground. Nerussa vaguely heard Byron ask if there was anything he could do to help, but she numbly shook her head. She had never been so humiliated in her life. That girl had been nothing but trouble. That was one person she could live with never seeing again.

_Jensine_

Jensine sighed to herself as two ragged teenagers entered her shop, a lizard and a wood elf, laughing merrily at some shared joke. These were the ones to watch out for—quick tongues and even quicker hands. She was certain she had seen the lizard before; the other day, he had tried to walk out with a pricey Akaviri warblade, then claimed that he was only examining it to decide if he wanted to buy. A likely story. That blade cost more that his family's home, if he even had one.

"You!" She addressed him sharply. He gave her a happy smile, eyes wide and innocent.

"Yes, ma'am?" She wasn't sure if he was mocking her, or if it was just the way his harsh accent slurred the words. Her eyes narrowed.

"Keep your hands to yourself. If you so much as lay a finger on anything, I'm calling the guards." He cried out as if she'd stabbed him.

"I am _hurt_ that you would even _think _such a thing of poor Amusei!" he wailed. The wood elf made an odd choking sound, both hands clamped over her mouth. For a brief moment Jensine wondered if she was ill, but from the girl's from her dancing eyes, she figured that she was stifling laughter. Anger swirled inside her, but then she realized the lizard—Amusei—was poking around in the back corner.

"Hey!" She was there in an instant, pushing him away. "I told you to keep your hands to yourself." But he only rolled his eyes.

"Lady, please. You shop is the worst I have ever seen!"

"Why you—" She was cut off, however, as a pair of scaly arms wrapped tightly around her.

"I am only joking! Amusei loves you!" he sang.

"Get off!" She pulled away and stared at him, aghast. "What's wrong with you? Are you mad?"

"Yes. Completely." He turned aside with a haughty air. "Come, Lily. We must go." And the two exited the shop, Jensine breathing a sigh of relief. She still wasn't sure what had happened, but it had to have been the most unusual encounter she had ever had with a customer. It wasn't until she was closing up that evening that she noticed a number of items were missing from the front counter.

_Armand Christophe_

Armand carefully considered the two young Bosmer girls standing before him, unsure what to make of their story. He flipped through the pages of the diary again, then glanced back up at them. "I'm still not sure what you're trying to tell me. So Lily got the diary…and Methredhel pretended to be a whore? What has that got to do with anything?" Something about women always made him nervous. Maybe it was the way they giggled incessantly, or maybe the way they jumped from one topic to another. Whatever it was, it was irritating.

"You should have seen her." He jumped as the girl spoke. Those were the first words he had ever heard her utter. He didn't even know she could speak. But again, Amusei had done enough talking for the both of them when he had showed up with her earlier that evening. That fool Argonian was worse than a woman, the way he constantly chattered. And he had some nerve to bring a stranger to a guild meeting. Apparently, he had run into her in the streets, and then proceeded to drag her all over the City. Any Doyen in his right mind would have demanded that she leave immediately, but something about her made him reconsider. It was the quiet calm in her features that just barely masked the desperation that he liked. Desperation always seemed to bring out the worst in people, and therefore breed the best thieves. And now she was giggling madly, and beginning to retell that ridiculous story.

"She just went up to his wife and told her to get out! And then she started screaming at her, and they got into a fight! Then Amantius showed up and pulled them off each other, and his wife started screaming at him, and while he was trying to convince her that he really wasn't unfaithful, we just slipped out the door. They're probably still arguing," she finished, beaming.

That made even less sense than Methredhel's version. He exhaled deeply. "Okay. Let me see if I have this straight. Lily followed Methredhel to the house, and broke in after her. Then the wife came downstairs, and Methredhel distracted her while Lily grabbed the diary. Correct?"

"Well, actually—" Methredhel began, but he quickly cut her off.

"Spare me the details. For the most part, is that correct?" They nodded in affirmation. "Hmm," he mused aloud. For a few moments, he silently considered the dilemma. Neither could have retrieved it without the other, so which to admit to the guild? Finally he spoke. "Fine. You're both in. Just don't make this a habit. Jobs tend to get messy when there's too many people involved." He would have gone on to explain the guild rules, but they wouldn't have heard him over their excited squeals. Women.

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**Hm, Armand seems to be a bit of a misogynist... Anyhow, I realize this was a bit of a filler chapter, but I hope it was at least somewhat interesting. The next update will be soon, I promise :)**


	5. Chapter Four: Branching Out

**A/N: What? No reviews? Come on, people, you're killing me! XD My birthday is in two days, and I'd really like to have at least five reviews by then. So please? As a birthday present to yours truly?  
Anyhow, I wasn't kidding when I said the next update would be soon. Enjoy!  
And oh, yeah, I don't think I put a disclaimer last chapter, but no, I don't own Oblivion or the Elder Scrolls...or anything else, really**

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Chapter Four: Branching Out

I was abruptly awoken by a foot digging into my side. "Owwww!" I sat up to glare at the culprit and saw that it was Carwen. "What the—"

"Shhhh!" she hissed, even more sharply than usual. Even at the best of times, she didn't particularly care for me. The feeling was mutual, but there was nothing either of us could do about it. Methredhel was pretty much the queen of the little shack we all lived in, and she absolutely hated conflict. Besides, I was at a disadvantage, being the latest to join them. Methredhel and Carwen had been best friends their entire lives, growing up in a small town south if the City. When they reached adulthood, they had immediately gotten out and headed off to make their fortunes. Adanrel had joined them shortly later, and together, the three of them had bought a house on the Waterfront. The night I had joined the Guild, Methredhel had sort of taken me under her wing, thank the gods.

Nerussa had been right when she sai**d** I hadn't thought things through. The Waterfront wasn't dangerous, but it certainly was rough. If I hadn't had Amusei with me, who knows what could have happened. Poor Amusei. It really was a shame that we had parted on such bad terms. He had been a good friend.

My thoughts were jerked back to the present as Carwen kicked me once again. "Damn, Lily, get up!" I hauled myself to my feet and faced her straight on.

"What? What do you want?" To my satisfaction, I saw her shrink back just the tiniest bit. I normally considered myself pretty mild-mannered, but I was not a person to mess with when I was tired, not to mention this girl really, _really_ irritated me But before she could respond, the door swung open and Methredhel slipped inside.

"Carwen! Lily! _What_ are you two _doing_?" Before either of us could respond, she had flung herself down beside my bedroll, sweeping my few belongings into a pack. She was finished before I could protest. "Here." She thrust it at me. "Take this. Come on, we have to _go_!"

"Wait just a minute." I snatched her arm, forcing her to stand still. There was a panic growing inside me, all too familiar and distinctly unsettling. "What's going on?"

She sighed impatiently. "There's this Watch captain that's on to us. Hieronymus Lex or something. He's putting the entire district on lockdown, so Armand's shutting down operations in the City. All Guild members have to get out. Now." She made a move to pull away, but I held firm.

"For how long? Where are we supposed to go?"

Methredhel finally managed to jerk free. "I don't know. Until we hear otherwise. And Armand said for you to go to Chorrol."

"Just me? Alone? Why Chorrol? What's in Chorrol?"

"Yes, alone. And it doesn't matter what's in Chorrol, only who isn't." She snuffed out the candles, leaving the hut soaked in darkness. "Hurry up," she hissed. "The Watch is searching every house." And then she and Carwen disappeared into the night. For a few minutes, I stood there, dazed. How was I supposed to get there? North on the Red Ring road, then…west? Northwest?

I realized I would have to figure it out as I went along, when I heard shouts outside. If the Legion had already showed up, I was out of time. I rushed from the house, wincing as the door slammed shut behind me. As guards appeared at the end of the street, I called upon the power of my Shadow birthsign, and became one with the darkness.

A birthsign is a funny thing. It's not magic; there's no spell you can learn for it. It's a different kind of power, something old and ancient, linked to the stars themselves. The night I was born the Shadow reigned over the sky. And ever since, I have had the ability to blend seamlessly into the shadows.

However, this power has one major disadvantage. Unlike invisibility or chameleon spells, which work on the minds of others to convince them that they can not see you, this completely conceals you. Literally. As in, you can't see your own body. This had never been a problem for me before, but again, I had never been madly running through the cold with barely any sleep. That's how I managed to misjudge the distance and fall off the Garden wall. All of my weight landed on my right foot as I struggled to recover, and with a sharp crack, I crashed to the ground.

I've never been the type of girl who can't handle a little gore, but the sight of my own blood is something else entirely. As red droplets began to paint the dewy grass, my mind spun into a daze and I began to shriek. In hindsight, I suppose it must have been funny to a casual observer. I was still invisible, but completely audible. And it just so happened that a guard was walking past as it happened. His screams mixed with mine as he rushed off, calling for Talos to save him. There was a metallic crash and he slammed into another guard, and then a string of curses.

My mind was still buzzing, but at least I had the sense to realize that I needed to shut up. I shoved my fist into my mouth, stifling my cries to mere whimpers. The jingling of steel armor grew closer as more guards returned to investigate. As they drew closer, my heart began to pound even faster. They wouldn't see me, but they would be able to see the puddle of blood. One of them squinted in my direction, and I froze. He was squinting at the ground, but before he could take a closer look, a new voice broke through the night.

"Gods damn it! What are you fools doing? This is not a ghost hunt!" By the flickering light of the torch he carried, I considered the newest arrival. He had a sharp, square face, and narrow eyes that flitted in every direction. By the way the others stood at attention, I gathered that my savior was none other than Hieronymus Lex himself. The thought of telling Methredhel about this almost made me giggle. Almost.

The other guards began to mutter excuses, but he cut them all off. "Enough. Get back to your places." And with that, they shuffled away. Sighing with relief, I slowly stood, gingerly place weight on my injured foot. The pain shot through my body, and I nearly cried out again as I crumpled to the ground. It would have been helpful if I could at least see what I was dealing with, but it would be a while until the invisibility wore off. I discovered that I could manage to limp along if I only put weight on my heel. It was still painful, but not overwhelmingly so. I hobbled away, hoping I wasn't leaving a trail of blood.

I made it out of the City with surprisingly little difficulty. It would seem that the Legion's attention was focused on the Waterfront tonight, especially after the "ghost scare." Honestly, they were a bunch of big babies. However, after the gates slammed shut behind me, I was faced with a new problem. The landscape was full of hills, and in my crippled state, it was difficult to manage them. Needless to say, my progress was slow. As the City faded into the distance, silence descended, and I began to feel much better. The invisibility had finally worn off, and I was able to see to my foot. The wound actually didn't look that severe, but flesh around it was discolored. When I probed it, I couldn't help but to let out a yelp. Based on my limited knowledge of Restoration, it was probably broken. I cast the small healing spell I knew on it, but it was an insignificant improvement. Until I could get to a healer, I would just have to make do.

I was travelling through forest now, and the air tasted clean and pure. However, I found myself shivering from the chill. There hadn't been a frost yet, but it was certainly only days away. By the time the edge of the eastern sky began to lighten, I had reached the ruins of a fort. They loomed ominously across the road, and I felt a faint shudder of dread as I passed beneath them. I brushed it aside, assuming I was just being paranoid, but a few seconds later, I found myself in actual danger. A highwayman sprang from the bushes, brandishing a battle axe.

"Your money or your life," he demanded, grinning madly. I nearly leapt out of my skin. He literally came from _nowhere_.

"Look, I don't have any," I said cautiously, slowly inching backwards. He moved with me, his grin growing wider as I was backed up against a wall.

"Oh, really?" he purred. "Well there's other ways a pretty girl like you can pay." And then I was knocked down flat on my back, with the lecherous creep _licking my face_. I screamed at the top of my lungs, but deep down, I knew it was useless. We were in the middle of nowhere, and I hadn't encountered anyone on the road all night. I tried to reach for Rat's Bane, but he had pinned down my wrists above my head. His breath reeked like something dead, but it was the feeling of him pressed against me that made me want to vomit. I furiously struggled, but he wasn't budging. _Not like this, not like this…_

Thwack! The highwayman's body went stiff, and he collapsed limply against me, dead. With a mixture of shock and relief, I squirmed out from underneath him and crawled to my feet. A single arrow protruded from his back. For a moment, I stood there disbelievingly, staring at it in awe. Then it hit me how stupid I was being. This was no time to be admiring some mystery sniper's handy work. It was very likely that I was next.

I whirled around and darted behind a pillar, but then I heard a voice call out. "Young lady? Are you all right?"

I carefully peered around the corner to see a grey-haired Altmer. There was a bow in his hand, and he was staring at me with a curious expression. "Are you all right?" he repeated. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

Slowly, I cleared my throat. "Um, no. I'm okay." And then I proceeded to make a fool of myself by bursting into tears.

The look on his face was priceless. "There, there. It's okay," he said, awkwardly patting me on the back. Apparently, he was not used to dealing with hysterical women.

I sniffed, dabbing at my eyes. "I-I'm sorry..." I managed. Gods, I felt like such an idiot. Nothing happened, I was fine. So why was I so upset?

"I'm Honditar," he said, offering a hand.

I accepted it. "Lily."

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Lily," he nodded. "If you don't mind my asking, what where you doing out here by yourself?"

"Trying to get to Chorrol," I said dully. I couldn't look him in the eye. I was too embarrassed.

"Well, you're closer than you think!" he announced cheerfully. "I can escort you the rest of the way, if you'd like."

"Yes, please. Thank you." I was blushing with shame the whole way, but after what had just happened, my pride really wasn't worth it.

* * *

**So Lily's off to new adventures! How exciting...I think this is the shortest chapter yet. I'm personally excited for the next one, though, because we get to meet one of the other important characters. Unfortuanately, that will probably be my last update for a while, because NaNoWriMo is coming up real soon. Yes, I will have to resort to original fiction for a while...what a shame. Thanks for reading!**


	6. Chapter Five: Ichabod

**A/N: Hey everyone! I'm back! It's December, and you know what that means: NaNoWriMo is over-I won! It was fun, but I've been missing this story, and I'm excited to start working on it again. But I can't believe you're going to make me say it...no reviews? You had a whole month! I would really appreciate feedback on this story. You can just tell me what you liked, what you didn't, what I can improve...anything. I've been a poet my whole life, and I've only started writing fiction within the past year, so I would really like to know how I'm doing. And no, I still don't own the Elder Scrolls or Oblivion.**

* * *

Chapter Five: Ichabod

Honditar owned a small house just outside of Chorrol. His wife had died a while back, and he had a daughter living on Somerset Isle and a son at the Arcane University. He was a hunter and a scout, and he was also a master of athletics. Around the time of the Imperial Simulacrum, he had nearly been forced into the Legion, but he fled instead. He told me none of this himself, though; Rasheda did.

Rasheda was the smith at Fire and Steel. She and Honditar were longtime friends, and he had been kind enough to get me a job working for her. When I tried to thank him though, he had brushed aside, and refused the septims I offered him. "I just did what I hope someone would do if it were my daughter," he insisted. I relented, but I was determined to pay him back someday.

Rasheda was a quiet woman, but once you got to know her, she opened up more. A lot more, in fact. In addition to her own life story, she also shared with me Honditar's, his late wife's, and her four brothers'. While she hammered away, I swept the floor, polished weapons, and dealt with customers. I didn't make much, but at least I could afford food. However, the work was mindless, and I often felt myself growing restless. At least in the Thieves Guild, I was never bored.

Of all the things I had ever imagined myself becoming, a professional thief was never one of them. I hadn't even known the Guild existed until Amusei had dragged me off to that meeting. There had always been the rumors, of course, but no one actually believed them. And within hours of discovering that they were true, I was part of them. Thieving was surprisingly easy, as it turned out. Don't be too predictable, take advantage of every possible distraction, and _never _act guilty. It was also exciting, in a way. Of course, there was always the threat of being caught and sent back to prison hanging over my head, but there was no better way to get what I needed—like a mortar and pestle.

I had lifted a set from the Mages Guild, and since then pursued Alchemy with a fierce passion. I would normally be finished at Fire and Steel by noon, and I would spend my afternoons in the area surrounding Chorrol, searching for ingredients to add to my collection. Oftentimes, however, I would just wander. Chorrol was right on the edge of the Great Forest, and it reminded me of home somewhat. It was on an afternoon such as this that I met him.

I had already cleared out the immediate southwest area the day before, but I was trying to avoid heading to close to Weynon Priory. It brought up too many guilty feelings that I wanted to avoid. I was sitting with my back against a tree, enjoying the fresh sunshine, when I heard the growl and the underbrush snapping. I bolted to my feet to see a grey streak speeding towards me. A wolf. Oh gods. It would seem I was in for a fight. At least I had had the sense to bring Rat's Bane with me. Drawing it out, I charged towards it. My gait was stiff and awkward, thanks to my injury from the night I left the City, but I was moving pretty fast. I sprung atop a rock, intending on dropping down on the wolf, but at that instant, a figure stood up from behind it. We collided, both of us crashing heavily to the forest floor.

For a moment, I was dazed. Then the wolf was in my face, snapping ferociously, and I brought up my sword to block it. It gave me time got scramble back, but it was still coming at me. I felt a quick flash of pain as its teeth sunk into my leg, but I was able to swing my arm back around, creating a deep gash in the side of its neck. It whimpered, but it was still coming at me. Bringing my sword up, I stabbed downward repeatedly until it stopped struggling. Breathing a sigh of relief, I wiped blood from my mouth and turned to consider whoever it was I had crashed into.

A young Altmer male was huddled at the foot of a nearby tree, an elven dagger clutched in his trembling fist. "Is it…dead?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"Sure it is." I felt a smile creeping to my face at the sight of this awkward young man. Slowly, he stood, stretching to his full height. Unruly brown hair framed his golden face. He had wide brown eyes, like a deer's. He glanced down at the weapon in his hand.

"I, um, I was going to help fight, but I thought you had it under control." He smiled sheepishly. "I'm not much good with this thing."

"It's beautiful, though." Noticing my admiration, he held it out for closer inspection.

"It was a gift from my father, for my sixteenth birthday." Yikes. For my sixteenth birthday, I had gotten a sweetroll and a calcinator. I stared at the intricate weapon, taking in the delicate gold filigree on the silvery blade. There really were no weapons like those of the elven variety. Beautiful, lightweight, and deadly, they were both sharp and aerodynamic. Envy swept over me; it had always been my dream to own one. I glanced back up at his face, and noted the staff on his back.

"You're a mage?" I scrutinized him more closely.

"Yes. Well, I'm only an associate, actually, but I'm studying to be one."

"Really." I took note of his dusty green robe. "Arcane University?"

He gave a modest grin. "Yes. I'm the first of my family to get in." His voice had a heavy note of pride, but not arrogance. I realized he wasn't the typical stuck-up Altmer mage. For some reason, I liked this strange young man.

"What's your concentration?"

"Mysticism, probably. But I'm also considering Conjuration." I chuckled, understanding the situation all too well.

"Same way for me," I agreed. "I've dabbled in Alchemy my whole life, but Illusion is just more…useful."

"Wait—you're a mage? I thought you were—" He abruptly cut himself off, and I felt my face begin to burn.

"A bandit? A beggar? A thief?" I shrugged. "Hard times," I said evenly. "It happens to the best of us." His face flushed as deeply as mine.

"You know, you're completely covered in blood," he suddenly observed, effectively changing the subject.

"Ehh." I delicately flicked my dripping fingers, scattering blood droplets everywhere, all the while trying not to look directly at the injury. It wasn't the first time I had been covered in blood. Just pretend it wasn't mine. I nearly laughed out loud when he recoiled.

"Let me help you heal that," he said quickly.

"No, it's fine. I'll do it," I protested. Before I could say anything more, he grabbed my injured leg. I tried to pull away, but blue light surged from his fingertips, and the uneven row of jagged puncture wounds closed up before my eyes. There wasn't even a hint of scarring. I stared in amazement.

"You're—good," I said. The few times anyone in my family had seen a healer, the results ended up being just the same as if the injury had been allowed to heal on its own. And, to my surprise, when I put weight on it, the dull, constant throb from my broken foot had disappeared. "Conjuration and Mysticism? Not Restoration?" His face darkened again.

"It was always my mother's dream for me to become a healer. She always pushed Restoration, but my father said that was the Chapel's business. When she passed on, I turned to other disciplines of study." Something clicked with that statement.

"You're not Honditar's son, are you?" He looked startled.

"Why, yes I am. You know my father?"

"He saved my life once. Long story," I said quickly. I didn't really want to get into the details of that particular tale, but I couldn't help noticing irony. Maybe I had found a way to pay Honditar back after all.

We made our way back to the city together, quickly becoming friends along the way. His name was Ichabod. He was nineteen years old, and he was only the fourteenth person in history to be invited to begin his studies at the Arcane University. Most mages, he explained, came to the University after achieving renown in their local guildhalls, and by that point, they had already reached higher ranks. There was a group of apprentices there, but they tended to avoid him, so he spent most of his time studying or pursuing another interest of his—Alchemy. We had just passed through the gates, and were in the middle of a discussion of properties of a Nighteye potion, when a shrill screech cut us off.

"Ichabooooooodddddd!" A small blur appeared from out of seemingly nowhere and flung itself straight at him. For a moment, he staggered, but managed to keep from falling over. I realized it was a petite Argonian girl clinging to his neck. "Ichabod! You're back! We've all missed you! Does your father know you're here? You didn't drop out, did you?" He only laughed and pried away her arms.

"Yes, Father knows. And I'm just back for a visit. It's good to see you too, Dar-Ma!" For a few moments, they chattered enthusiastically, while I started to feel more and more awkward. I was uncomfortably edging away when the girl whipped around to face me.

"Hello! I don't think we've met," she said brightly. "Are you new in town?" I had barely nodded in agreement when she was chattering on again. "It's so good to meet you! I always love to make new friends. My mother would like to meet you, too. She owns Northern Goods and Trade, here in Chorrol." And so the conversation went. After an hour I pretty much knew her entire life story. Although she was a bit overbearing, I decided I liked this strange girl.

A few days later, I was walking out of Fire and Steel when I heard someone call my name.

"Lily!" I glanced up to see Dar-Ma running towards me. "Hi, Lily," she greeted breathlessly. "What are you doing?"

"Um, not much. Just got finished with work," I replied uneasily. However brief my Thieves Guild experience had been, it had taught me that questions were never a good thing. To my surprise, Dar-Ma began to clap her hands eagerly.

"Come have lunch with us!"And before I could protest, her small, scaly hand had latched onto my arm, and she was dragging me towards her home, with surprising strength for someone so tiny. "Mother!" she called as we entered Northern Goods and Trade. An elegant, stately woman appeared through a doorway.

"Hello, dear. Who's your friend?" she greeted.

"This is Lily!" she enthusiastically introduced. "She's friends with Ichabod. Lily, this is my mother." I braced myself for the judgmental stare, but the woman only gave me a kind smile.

"Welcome, Lily. I'm Seed-Neeus," she said, with another smile. "Shall we go upstairs?" She ushered us up the steep staircase into a large, open room crammed with an odd assortment of items. She took us back to another, smaller area above the stairs, where a table stood, full of dishes giving off delicious smells.

Freshly baked bread, mashed pumpkin and roasted apples were frantically crammed into my mouth at an alarming rate. I hadn't eaten this well in a long time, and Seed-Neeus was almost as good a cook as my own mother. I was half-worried that my voracious appetite would be offensive, but Seed-Neeus only remarked how glad she was that I had enjoyed the food. When we had finished, we sat at the table talking.

"Dar-Ma keeps telling me she has no interest in marriage, but I say she needs to keep her options open," Seed-Neeus proclaimed, pouring herself a glass of wine. "That one Odiil boy—what's his name? Antus?—would be perfect for her, but she won't give him a moment's thought!"

"Oh, _Mother_!" wailed Dar-Ma. "I don't_ need_ a husband! And most definitely not Antus!"

"But I though you liked him!" her mother protested. "You were always such good friends!" Dar-Ma groaned.

"That's all we are! Friends! Nothing more!"

They continued arguing back and forth, while I hid my chuckles behind a napkin. When I finally left, however, there was a dull ache in my heart. I used to have similar conversations with my mother.

* * *

"Did you hear?" someone commented as a gaggle of shoppers strolled through Fire and Steel. "That Argonian girl, what's her name, Dar-Ma, has disappeared." Disappeared? I jerked to attention, nearly tripping over my broom in the process. I had just seen her a few days ago. It wasn't even two weeks since I had eaten at her house.

"Yeah, I hear her mother is real upset about it," someone else added. Heart growing cold, I dashed out of the shop, ignoring Rasheda's calls from behind me. I dashed across the square and burst through the door of Northern Goods and Trade, sprinting up the stairs.

"Seed-Neeus! What happened? Where's Dar-Ma?" The woman turned to me tearfully, dabbing at her swollen eyes.

"She went to make a delivery to Etira Moslin in Hackdirt. Normally, I would go, but I wasn't feeling well and she insisted." She paused, sniffing. "Anyhow, neither she nor Blossom returned. I fear the worst."

"Blossom?" I questioned.

"Her horse. She loves her; she would never leave her." Tears began to drip down her face again.

"Okay," I said, my mind racing rapidly. "Seed-Neeus, where is Hackdirt? Can you show me on the map?"

"Here. Just south of Chorrol," she said dully. "Why?"

"Listen," I said quickly, "I'm going to go find her. You wait here for us to get back." And with that, I dashed from the building. I retrieved Rat's Bane from my pack, which I had stowed nearby, and dashed out the gate, still fighting with the buckle. In my distraction, I ran directly into someone.

"Ow!" Rubbing my head, I glared up into a familiar face.

"Lily?" Ichabod looked confused. "What's going on?" I didn't even stop to talk to him.

"Dar-Ma," I called over my shoulder as I jogged away. "She's gone missing. I'm going to find her." He was beside me in an instant.

"I'm coming too." His face now wore a grim, determined mask. I nodded, and we dashed away into the forest.

We reached the town as the late afternoon shadows began to stretch and lengthen. I wasn't sure what I had been picturing, but it definitely hadn't been what awaited us. Aside from a few shabby, run-down buildings, there entire town was mainly composed of charred, crumbling ruins. The chapel was the only building that wasn't in a complete state of disrepair. The whole place gave me the creeps. I shivered, and it wasn't from the chilling temperature.

"Are you all right?" Ichabod whispered.

"I'm fine!" I hissed. "Let's just find Dar-Ma and get out of here." I pointed to a swaying sign. "Moslin's Inn?"

"Or Dry Goods." He nodded towards another building. I made a face at him and headed in that direction.

The door creaked as I opened it, as if it were moaning for help. "Hello?" I called. A sneering, dirty woman appeared from the shadows.

"We don't like strangers around here," she said bluntly. I blinked, taken aback.

"Etira Moslin?"

"Yes, that's me. Now what do you want?" What I really wanted was to run her through right then and there, but luckily, Ichabod chose that moment to speak up.

"We're just looking for our friend. Her name is Dar-Ma. Have you seen her?"

"No! I don't know anyone with that name. And if you mean that filthy Argonian cheat from Chorrol, you can tell her—"

"Okay, okay," Ichabod interjected, "we'll be going now." With that, we quickly back out the door. Once outside, I gestured for Ichabod to follow me around the corner.

"She's definitely hiding something," I whispered. Ichabod nodded.

"I agree." His large, deer-like eyes were darting rapidly from side to side, as if he expected someone to leap out and attack him any minute. "Maybe we should—" He froze, cocking his head to the side. "What was that?" I had heard it too—a low sort of whicker, coming from behind the building. Ichabod suddenly dashed off.

"Wait!" I scurried after him into one of the burnt-out structures, colliding with him when he stopped short. He was staring with a peculiar expression at the horse inside. It was a paint mare on the smallish side, taking us in with dark, intelligent eyes. "Blossom?" I ventured, already knowing the answer.

"Yes." I could hear the steel in his voice, and I realized he was more upset than I was. I had met Dar-Ma just a few weeks ago, but they had been friends since childhood. I patted his shoulder awkwardly.

"Don't worry. At least we know she's here somewhere. We'll find her." He abruptly whirled around.

"I think I should confront her with this."

"No, don't." I boldly stood in his path, blocking his way. I couldn't ignore his frazzled expression, and I realized that he was very quickly losing his cool. "Ichabod? Just calm down. We will find her."

"Psst!" The low hiss came out of seemingly nowhere. We both jumped as a nervous looking little man appeared beside us. He glanced around rapidly, then leaned in close. "We can't talk here, but the girl is in danger. Meet me in my house after sunset." With that, he rushed off. Ichabod and I slowly turned and looked at each other.

"Well…" he said. "I suppose we have a lead."

For the next few hours, we silently sat in the charred structure as Blossom nibbled the scant grass beside us. When the last orange glow faded, I stood. "Come on."

We crept out of the shed and snuck behind the rows of buildings, circling the town until we reached the house the man had indicated. They door was unlocked, and we walked right in. He turned, his hands frantically fumbling with each other.

"Oh, good. You came. Listen, I don't have a lot of time, but you've got to save her! I didn't know what they were planning, honest! They're going to sacrifice her!"

"What." I had never heard Ichabod sound so cold. His eyes were full of malice, making even me shudder. The man however, was positively quaking.

"They want to bring back the Deep Ones. I thought I did, too…but she's so innocent." I produced a key, looking back and forth between us, as if not sure which one to give it to. I quickly took, not particularly trusting Ichabod at the moment. "She's being held down in the caves. There's a trapdoor in every house. The one in Moslin's Inn is your best bet though. It's closest to where she's being held. I gotta go." And with that, he sprinted from the house.

We also exited, albeit far more cautiously. The town was eerily empty as we once again wove through the ruins; however, there was a low, ominous chanting coming from the chapel. My hand automatically went to Rat's Bane as we entered the inn, but it was as deserted as the rest of the town. We both immediately began scanning the floor for some sign of a trapdoor.

"Over here!" Ichabod gestured wildly from behind a counter on the other side of the room. I dashed over to find him staring down at a small square of wood. I unlocked it, and together, we hauled it open. I prepared myself to hold Ichabod back from throwing himself through it, but instead, he hesitated. "You first," he said quickly. I sighed.

"Of course." I awkwardly lowered myself through the opening, then let myself drop. I hit the ground a little harder than I expected, nearly toppling off balance. From the light of a solitary torch flickering, I examined my surroundings. It looked like a typical underground tunnel, dank and confining and—what was that over there?

"Lily?" Ichabod called from above.

"Hold on." I moved closer to investigate, and felt a sudden mixture of relief and triumph was over me. Locked in a cage there was Dar-Ma, dirty, shivering, and looking terrified out of her mind, but very much well and alive. "Dar-Ma!"

"Lily!" Her delicate hands desperately gripped the crude bars. "Please get me out of here!" Tears were streaming down her face, and her voice bore more than a hint of hysteria. I quickly unlocked the cell, and she flew into my arms. "I was so scared. They kidnapped me from my room when I was asleep. They were going to kill me!" She began to sob again. "Please, I just want to go home to my mother."

"It's all right now; we're going to get you out of here." I was going to say more, but a strange noise made us pause. Dar-Ma's eyes went huge.

"The Brethren!" She tugged at my hand. "They're coming! We need to go now!" We dashed over to the trapdoor.

"Ichabod!" I hissed. His worried face appeared above me, looking more anxious than ever.

"What's going on down there? Is that Dar-Ma?"

"We need to move. Now." I cupped my hands, motioning for Dar-Ma to use them as a step. "Help pull her up," I instructed Ichabod. For such a tiny girl, she was _heavy_. "Hurry!" I grunted. Somehow, Ichabod managed to pull her up, and they both reached down for me. For a few terrible minutes, I thought I was going to pull them down with me, but all of a sudden, I was sprawled on the inn floor, just as odd grunts started to fill the tunnel. Ichabod slammed it shut, and I jammed the lock into place. Grabbing Dar-Ma, we fled, trying to ignore whatever was thumping on the trapdoor.

Luckily, the town was still empty when we reemerged, but by the shadowy movement through the windows, it wouldn't be for long. We half carried, half dragged Dar-Ma back to Blossom and hoisted her into the saddle. She hugged the creature's neck and whispered something into her ear.

"Get on with her," Ichabod commanded. I was startled by the sudden authority in his voice. "She can't ride by herself."

"Are you sure you—"

"I have spells to protect myself. Just get her out of here. I'll catch up." I nodded, swing up behind her. I gently reached past and took the reins.

"Come on, Blossom." I dug my heels into her sides, and she took off. As we fled, I kept listening for sounds of pursuit, but there were none. When the town was out of sight, I pulled Blossom to a halt.

"Why are we stopping?" Dar-Ma's voice was ringed with fear.

"It's all right; we're just waiting for Ichabod." For a few minutes, we sat in silence. The forest was oddly still. The moons were stark white in the inky black sky, and a fine layer of frost was starting to form. It was eerily beautiful—and also really, really cold. Dar-Ma was shaking, and I felt my own teeth beginning to chatter. Gods, where was Ichabod?

Just as I was starting to worry, there was a sharp crack. I reached for my weapon, but a light suddenly blossomed, and Ichabod appeared. I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Sorry to take so long," he said, a little sheepishly. "I ended up a little lost." I couldn't help myself. I started to laugh; quietly snickering at first, but at the look on Ichabod's face, I burst into a full-out laugh. I would have tipped off of Blossom if Dar-Ma hadn't caught my arm. She, too, began to giggle, and then there we both were, laughing hysterically at Ichabod while he glared at us in silence. But soon, he was laughing with us. We had made it out. We were safe.

As we slowly travelled through the dark forest, I felt an odd sense of something. It wasn't exactly happiness, but it was something close, something I hadn't felt in a long time. I was with my friends, and we had just overcome something incredible together. For the first time in many months, my heart was at peace.


	7. Chapter Six: The Ayleids

**So, there was a lot going on last chapter. I hope it didn't get too confusing; I was just trying to give a clear sense of who Ichabod is, so I hope that came through!**

As always, I own nothing.

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Chapter Six: The Ayleids

It would seem that all good things really must come to an end. A few days after Dar-Ma's rescue, I was approached by a Thieves Guild agent, with instructions to return to the Imperial City. Lex had been ordered back to regular duties after his month-long siege yielded no results, and it was finally safe to resume operations. So I said my goodbyes to Dar-Ma and Seed-Neeus, and headed back.

It was strange to be back in the City after my time in Chorrol. It was loud, noisy, and overcrowded. Also, I had forgotten how stuck up Nibeneans could be. Methredhel had squealed excitedly when I walked into the little shack, running over to hug me and ask all about my time away. Even Adanrel had greeted me warmly, rather unlike her usual morose self. Carwen, however, had just given me a curt nod, which I returned. Within a week, I was back to thieving again, as if the entire previous month had never happened.

I found myself spending a lot of time thinking about Ichabod. He had been a really good friend, and I hated that I didn't get a chance to say goodbye to him. These thoughts were never more prevalent than when I was in the Arboretum. It became sort of my solitude whenever Carwen and I would fight. Perhaps it was the abundant presence of plants, which always made me think back to our Alchemy discussions.

It was a Sun's Dusk morning, harshly sunny but with a bitter chill to the air. I was sitting beside a statue of Mara, and oddly enough, I was thinking of neither Alchemy nor Ichabod. Instead, I was admiring my new pair of moccasins I had acquired the day before. They were barely worn and fit me perfectly, and they were a definite improvement over the sack cloth sandals I had been wearing since Rain's Hand. Whatever it was that distracted my attention, I looked up to see a flock of very familiar-looking green robes. And standing a little ways apart from the flock was a very tall, very familiar figure.

"_Ichabod!_" He started at the sound of his name, but broke into a grin when he saw me waving furiously. He said something to someone in his group who nodded, then he broke away and jogged towards me.

"Lily! What are you doing here?" I could tell he was happy to see me, but there was confusion in his furrowed brow.

"I live here," I said with a shrug, forgetting that he had no way of knowing that.

"Oh," he said. He was obviously confused, but he didn't say anything more.

"So those are your University friends? For lack of a better word, at least?" He gazed hard in the direction of the similarly-robed figures.

"'Colleagues' would probably do. And yes," he replied flatly. For the first time, I noticed his ashy pallor and the bags under his eyes. He looked sick.

"Are you all right? You seem upset," I ventured. He was silent a few moments before replying.

"I'm just tired. We only have about another month of official studies until exams. And those exams determine whether or not you can move on to the next set of courses. And those courses, in turn, determine whether or not you can move up in rank. By Second Seed, I could be an Apprentice. If I don't muck this up, that is." I couldn't help laughing.

"I seriously doubt that will happen. How many people make it at your rank again?" But he shook his head glumly.

"I understand the lectures and my spellcasting's good. It's the spell I'm creating that worries me, and of course, the Ayleids." I frowned.

"Which era are you living in again? I'm pretty sure they haven't been around in a while." I gave a little laugh at my own joke, but Ichabod didn't seem to think it was that funny.

"We have to do research on them. We design our own project and present it to the Council," he snapped. "I'm sorry. That was harsher than I had intended, but…this is something that has to be good. And not just good, but spectacular. It has to stand out." He gave a sad sigh. "Everyone's pretty much just doing studies of their technology. A few people are doing their sorcery, but that's the only real variation. I had a wonderful idea, though. The problem is, I can't do it."

"Explain," I said slowly. I didn't like when he dragged things out like this.

"No, it's stupid," he insisted.

"Tell me!" I barked. He finally relented.

"I wanted to set up a field expedition. I mean, I would go to a ruin and explore it, and take notes on everything, like real researchers do."

"That's amazing!" I exclaimed. "Why don't you do that?" He sighed.

"Bandits. Ruins are always full of them. If I were doing Council-sanctioned research, I could petition for a battlemage escort, but this isn't something they'd take seriously. So, I'd be fighting them off on my own. And you know how that would go."

"Oh. But couldn't you just use spells or something? Some sort of paralyzing effect? You could just knock them out and they'd never even know you were there." He shook his head.

"Unfortunately, that's not really an option. First of all, I don't know any that are powerful enough. I would have to use scrolls, and do you realize how many that would take? And second, that plan relies entirely on stealth. If things didn't go perfectly as planned, I'd still be fighting them."

"So bring someone else with you," I argued. "You know, back up if something does go wrong." He stared at me blankly.

"Like who?"

"Me." The idea came to me so quickly, I had blurted it out before I had even thought it through.

"You?" He looked at me like I had sprouted an extra head.

"Yes, me!" I was mildly offended at his response. I had saved him from an angry wolf, and he was doubting my ability to warn him of a few bandits? But he was nodding, a thoughtful frown creasing his face.

"Okay," he said. "All right. We can do this. Will Loredas work for you?"

"Sure it will," I agreed.

"Then Loredas it is. I'll meet you here at six. Thanks, Lily. I owe you." And with that, he dashed back towards his fellow mages.

True to my word, I showed up beside the statue of Mara at six on Loredas morning. Ichabod was already there, struggling under the weight of an enormous pack.

"_What_ is in there?" I demanded.

"Things we need," he replied brightly. "The paralyzing scrolls, plus parchment, ink, quills, measuring tools, a couple reference books—"

"I'm going to stop you right there," I interjected. "We should probably get moving if we're going to get there and back before dark." Given his level of enthusiasm, he would probably stand there for the better part of an hour and chatter if I let him.

The ruin we were exploring was called Vilverin, and supposedly, it was the largest in the area. Sure enough, we encountered bandits plenty of times, but we were able to safely knock them out before we were detected. Ichabod insisted that we would be long gone before the spell would wear off, but I wasn't convinced. So while he measured and scribbled away, I occupied myself with the task of dragging the stiffened bandits to nearby pillars and tying them to the stately blocks of stone. Their eyes gazed balefully at me, but they were helpless to resist. I would not want to be anywhere within miles of them once they regained movement.

Ichabod was clearly in his element. He moved through the empty halls with an odd kind of grace, even as he skittered back and forth, mumbling to himself. His eyes held a feverish glaze as he soaked in his new-found knowledge. But when that look melted away, only to be replaced by terror, I knew something was wrong.

"Lily. Oh, Lily. Talos save us."

"What?" I pushed past him into the passageway he had just uncovered, desperate to see what had him so upset. Coughing at the cloud of dust I accidently inhaled, I batted my way through the tunnel, only to stop short. "Oh gods."

In the center of the room, completely soaked in blood, lay the corpse of Khajiit. It was completely mangled, and a horrendous smell reeked from it. Wrinkling my nose, I edged closer, feeling my stomach give a slight turn, despite myself. This was absolutely disgusting. Even worse, it had happened recently. The blood looked fresh, and whatever had done this was probably still around. I tore my eyes away to look back at Ichabod. "Are you okay?" He nodded, but he still looked as though he were about to be sick. "We'd better…keep our eyes open."

There was a tangible tension as we crept further into the ruin. Ichabod didn't stray far from my side, and my eyes darted rapidly from corner to corner. As we approached a set of stairs, we both hesitated, glancing at each other before venturing down into the unknown. It was pretty dark down there. We had just reached the bottom, when—

"ZOMBIE!" I screeched. The moaning creature stumbled from the shadows only to simultaneously have its rotting head swept from its body and be charred by a ball of flame. I yelped, leaping to the side as the tiny hairs on my arm were scorched. Panting heavily, I looked over at Ichabod, who was brandishing his staff, his eyes wide and his mouth forming a perfect O. Meeting his gaze, I felt an uncontrollable urge to laugh welling up inside of me. Before I knew it, I was slumped against the wall, hysterically giggling like a madwoman. Ichabod joined in, and it was several minute until we could catch our breaths.

"I…think we may have overreacted." The uncertainty with which he said it sent me into another fit of laughter.

"Maybe…just a bit," I panted. "At least now we know what happened to our friend up there." I shuddered a bit at the thought. I would imagine that being mauled by a zombie would be a particularly unpleasant death. Our relief at our escape was so great, we didn't give a thought to its creator.

We were just entering the final chamber when the necromancer appeared from behind a pillar. He flung his hand out, and a glowing purple portal appeared.

"He's summoning!" shouted Ichabod. I dodged just in time; a few more seconds and I would have been in the zombie's grasp. I heard Ichabod cry out from behind me, but the necromancer was summoning again. I swatted at him with Rat's Bane, opening a gash in his hand. His eyes filled with fury, and he whipped out a dagger proceeded to attack me with it. He was good. He moved expertly, slicing at me and gaining ground despite my longer blade. He may have won that fight if Ichabod hadn't decided to launch a fireball it him from atop the balcony. I was able to stick him as he desperately beat at his flaming sleeve. His face went pale, his jaw drooped, and he crumpled to the ground, wrenching the blade from my hand. It had been a lucky strike.

"Is he…dead?" called Ichabod, somewhat reminiscent of our first meeting.

"Yes," I called back, freeing my blade and wiping the dark blood onto his robes. "What are you doing up there?" He gave a sheepish chuckle

"I was trying to get away from the zombie. The staff doesn't have any more charge, and he Silenced me. Remember, I said I wasn't much good with this thing." He nervously fiddled with the dagger protruding from his belt. I nodded. Understandable.

He reappeared moments later, and began examining the massive stone altar at the head of the room. I, however, was more interested in the necromancer. I had never been up close to one before. They were always portrayed as rather shadowy characters, hiding out in ruins, seeking to reanimate the dead. I personally found the entire practice completely useless. Perhaps I simply didn't see the point. Dead was dead. If you couldn't rely on the finality of death, what else could you rely on?

I was distracted from my musings by a low grating sound, and a sharp gasp from Ichabod. I whirled around the see the top of the alter slide away and crash to the ground, scattering the objects on top of it everywhere. "By the Nine," Ichabod whispered. "Lily, look at this."

I went to his side and peered down at what had him so excited. The inside of the altar was hollow. Several scrolls and something wrapped in cloth lay at the bottom. He reached in slowly, almost reverently, and withdrew one. For a few moments, his eyes rapidly scanned it. Then his eyes grew wide, and he looked back up to meet my gaze. "This…is incredible."

"What is it?" I asked, leaning in for a better look.

"These writings…they're _Ayleid_. The Ayleids actually left these here."

"That's impressive," I said glancing inside the altar to see for myself.

"No!" His shout startled me. "This beyond impressive! When Alessia took over, she and her army burned all of their writings. This, I assume, survived because it was hidden, but…but…it doesn't matter _how_, it just matters that it _did_." He was so excited he was actually stuttering. "Lily, this may be _all that's left_. This…this is _huge_." He retrieved the rest, and began pulling strange objects from his pack. "I have to prepare them for travel, you see. They're very delicate; I don't want to ruin them…" As he rambled on, I took a closer look at the final item in the altar. My fingers brushed aside the ancient cloth, and I let out a gasp as loud as Ichabod's.

It was a shortsword, but not just any shortsword. At the first glance, it appeared elven, but when I picked it up, I realized it was like no other weapon I had ever seen before. It was somewhat darker in appearance, but that wasn't the only difference. When my fingers touched the blade, they tingled. Every nerve in my body suddenly felt electrified. I felt powerful, invincible.

"Holy breath of Talos…" Ichabod breathed. The scrolls forgotten, he was now staring at the weapon in my hands. "An Ayleid weapon?" He was at my side in an instant. "May I?" I begrudgingly handed it over. "I can't believe this, either," he murmured. "It's practically in perfect condition…" I stood watching as he examined it, feeling like something had been torn from me. Maybe it was foolish, but I _really_ wanted that sword. It felt so natural in my grip, as though it had been meant for me. The logical part of my brain told me that it was just the Ayleid magic messing with my head, but that didn't stop me from felling like it belonged to me. Then, to my surprise, Ichabod handed it back. I blinked.

"What?"

"You can keep it," he said. "You've got more use for it than I do." He gave a small chuckle.

"But…" _Stop arguing!_ _You get to keep it! _I silently screamed to myself. Still I had to be sure. "You're sure? You don't need it for research? Besides, they were your ancestors…"

"Yours too, though." He said this so casually, for a moment, I didn't realize it.

"Wait...what? I thought Altmer were descended from the Ayleids…" He glanced up distractedly from the scrolls.

"Well, we are, but so are all elven races. Orcs and dwarves, too. After their empire crumbled, the survivors scattered and ended up in various places, in different clusters, and the different races grew from those. So my ancestors went to Somerset Isle and concentrated on their magical powers, and yours went to Valenwood and learned how to live with the land. They were both Ayleids, though." I stood silently, contemplating this new information as he finished packing up. So I was descended from the Ayleids. Suddenly, my heritage felt far grander than it ever had.

Finally, Ichabod was finished, and we ascended the stairs, ending up back at the entrance. It was sunset when we stepped emerged, tired and ragged, but victorious. Our quest had been well worth it. I stood at the edge of Lake Rumare, taking in the glowing orange sun with a slight sense of awe. Maybe it was because I had spent the entire day underground, but tonight, it seemed far more beautiful than usual.

"Lily?" Ichabod spoke hesitantly.

"Yes?" In the fading light, his golden skin seemed to glow. I noticed he was chewing at his lip nervously.

"I just wanted to say thank you. For helping me today. What I found…" He trailed off. "It's just, I couldn't have done it without you. Thank you."

"Of course." I flashed him a quick smile. "That's what friends are for."

"Yes. Friends…" For some reason, he seemed sad as he said this. I turned to look at him once more, and for some reason, an awkward feeling twisted in my stomach. He caught my eye, and I saw that same uncomfortable restlessness in his face. The anticipation stretched between us, until, I couldn't bear it anymore.

"We should probably get going," I said quickly, stepping away from him. "It'll be dark by the time we get back to the City."

"Yeah," he agreed. We didn't really say much else until we parted inside the gates.


	8. Chapter Seven: An Autumn in Anvil

**Well, in this chapter we return to Hasathil and Enilroth. Wonder what they've been up to the past several months? Get ready to find out.**

I own nothing.

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Chapter Seven: An Autumn in Anvil

"Enilrooooooooth!" Enilroth jerked awake as the front door slammed against the wall. Oh no. His mother was home, and she was furious. He heard her footsteps pounding up the stairs, and then she burst into the room. Hands planted on her hips, she glowered at him.

"Mother? Is there something wrong?"

"Don't play innocent with me, young man," she snarled. "This morning, at the Chapel, I ran into Trevaia. I asked her how you were coming along with your studies, and do you know what she told me?" Oh, he knew where this was going. He closed his eyes, bracing himself. "She said you haven't showed up in almost two weeks! She was just about to pay me a visit to discuss it."

"Mother, I can explain…" He tried to protest, but he was immediately cut off.

"Oh, you'd better explain, and do so fast. Why haven't you been in school? Tell me what you're up to right now." He sighed. This conversation was bound to come up sooner or later. He decided to just tell her the truth.

"It's just that school's a waste of time." The woman gaped at him. Before she could say a word though, he quickly began to speak, words pouring rapidly from his mouth. "Let's be honest with ourselves, Mother. I'm never going to be any good at that stuff. I know how to read and write, and I understand numbers. All they want to teach us now are 'fundamentals of magic,' and spells and stuff. We both know I have the magical talent of a sheep. All that stuff is useless for me. I could get a job now. I'm old enough. We could save enough money so we could get a real house. Don't you understand?" His mother gazed at him with big, sad green eyes.

"Enilroth, to go anywhere in life you need an education! Don't you realize how important that is?"

"I'm just not like her, Mother. I never will be." Her face was suddenly hard again.

"Leave her out of this. It's not about her; it's about you. Now get up. I'm taking you to school. It seems I made a mistake in trusting you to go yourself."

He rose and dressed without a fuss, and allowed her to escort him to the Chapel, marching silently through the faint pink dawn. He didn't protest, but once he was sitting alone in one of the back pews, he let out a groan of frustration. What a waste, what a waste, what a waste. He didn't belong in the chapel, reading books and memorizing lessons. His hands longed to be used, to create something. His body wanted to move, to go straight out the door and _do something_. The door suddenly slammed open, and a small gaggle of giggling girls quickly filled up the benches, followed by several silent boys. So it was time for lessons to begin. A dull-eyed Nord boy seated across from him glanced his way and rolled his eyes. Enilroth gripped his quill tighter, nearly snapping it as Trevaia stepped to the front and began to call attendance. He didn't belong here. He didn't even bother to focus on the lesson. His quill flew over the parchment, lightly sketching the outline of a ship at sea.

He liked the way the docks felt on his feet. The dull thump of his shoes on the sand-buffered wood faded to a much sharper sound as he walked further out towards the edge; towards the very sea itself. He grinned as the wind whipped his light red hair across his face. Now this was really something. It had been picking up over the past several days, and now, it felt like a gale was about to break loose. He could only imagine what it must be like out at sea.

"Hey!" He suddenly found himself locked in a tight grip, being hauled back from the edge. He snapped to the side, breaking free from his captor's vise and whirling around to come face to face with a very angry Argonian. "What do you think you're doing, boy?" he growled.

"Calm down." Enilroth lifted his hands defensively. "I just like the docks. That's all." The Argonian, however, did not seem satisfied.

"You are not part of the crew. Get away! Now!"

"Fine!" Enilroth stormed away, mumbling angrily to himself. Leave it to that idiot to spoil his fun. So what if he wasn't part of the crew? He wasn't trying to board the ship for crying out loud. He just wanted to get as close to the sea as he could. In the end, he found himself sitting in a corner of the Flowing Bowl, sulking. His mood only worsened when the idiotic bartender took one look at him and shook his head when he asked for a drink. Too young to go to sea, too young to drink; by the Nine, was there anything he wasn't too young for?

"Here." His hand shot out of its own accord, catching the bottle before it slid off the edge of the table. "You look like you need this."

"Thanks." He uncorked it and took a long swig. He hardly even noticed the burning sensation in his throat anymore. He had taken to stealing sips here and there from Hasathil over the summer, and he had developed quite a taste for the bitter stuff. Wiping his mouth, he took a closer look at his benefactor.

She was an Imperial woman with sleek, lustrous dark hair swept back into a bun. Her dark eyes sparkled with intelligence and life, and her lips curved in a mischievous smile. Her red velvet dress looked out of place in this rough bar, but she carried herself with ease, wearing it proudly, like a queen. She was, quite frankly, the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

It may have been his imagination, but the temperature in the room slowly rose as he stared at her, his breathing constricting. It was a feeling he had never experienced before; women had never held much interest for him. But again, Bravil street filth was a far cry from this gorgeous creature in front of him.

Her eyes slightly widened as she realized how heavily he was gazing at her. "You're looking at me strange," she said, a light, nervous giggle escaping her lips. He struggled to find his voice.

"Sorry," he said smoothly. "It's not every day that pretty girls like you buy me drinks." Where had that come from? He instantly felt foolish, and braced himself for her scorn, but she only giggled again,

"Well, I don't know about _pretty_," she said, smoothing a few strands of hair away from her face. "So, what's your name?" she continued, flashing him another bright smile.

"Enilroth." It felt thick and heavy on his tongue. What a stupid name. He was making a fool of himself. The woman didn't seem to notice, though.

"I'm Faustina Cartia," she introduced herself. To his surprise, one of her delicate hands slowly moved up his arm. "It's nice to meet you, Enilroth."

"Nice to meet you, too" he choked out. He was having a hard time focusing on what he was doing here."

"Listen," she whispered, her lips mere inches away from his ear, "My friends and I have a small farmhouse on the outskirts of Anvil, just to the south. Meet us there at midnight, and we'll…make it worth your while." He couldn't even speak. He silently swore to himself that nothing, _nothing_, would keep him from that farmhouse. But then, a large, heavy pair of hands clamped down on his shoulders.

"Sorry," a deep voice boomed, "this one's not falling into your trap, Faustina." Indignant, Enilroth wrenched free to see a burly Nord restraining him. He started to protest angrily, but Faustina beat him to it.

"Oh, piss off, Oaken-Hull," she growled, her dark eyes flashing dangerously. "This doesn't concern you."

"Oh, but I think it does," he insisted. He peered down at Enilroth. "How old are you, boy? Tell the truth, now. Fifteen? Sixteen?" Enilroth gulped, the lie sticking in his throat.

"Fourteen, actually," he mumbled, shame burning across his face. He couldn't bring himself to look at Faustina. Deep inside, he felt anger towards this bumbling drunken Nord. Who was he to ruin his night?

"Fourteen, eh? And not much coin with you either? Am I right?"

"Yes."

"There, you see!" the Nord proclaimed triumphantly. "He's just a boy. You'll gain nothing from robbing him, you treacherous wench. Now go cause trouble somewhere else."

Enilroth looked at Faustina for the first time during this exchange. There was a heavy storm brewing deep in her eyes. "Churl," she spat. "What if your friends were to find out how helpless you are against a few women? Think they'd think so much of you then?"

"I've half a mind to tell, myself," the Nord growled. "Only I'll be going straight to the guard. I've got connections in the Castle, miss, so you just watch yourself." The fight slowly drained from her face.

"Fine," she relented, defeated. She stomped out of the Flowing Bowl, letting in a gust of wind and rain before she slammed the door shut. The Nord heaved his large frame into the seat she had previously occupied.

"Sorry about that, boy," he said gruffly. "That girl's nothing but trouble, though. Had to help you out. Wouldn't have felt right otherwise." Enilroth frowned at him.

"And you are…"

"Oh!" The man chuckled. "Forgot my manners there for a second. I'm Heinrich Oaken-Hull, sea captain. My ship's currently in for refitting, so I'm high and dry for a while. That's how I got mixed up with that lot." He jerked his head over his shoulder.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Enilroth said irritably. He only wanted this man to leave him alone. But Heinrich only leaned in closer.

"Her and her friends…they're sort of…a gang, you see. They come in here, pick out likely victims, and then lure them out to that farmhouse of theirs. Then they rob you blind." He gave a sigh, heavy with frustration. "They got me a few weeks ago. That's when I started to notice them talking to others, and then those same fellows being considerably poorer. I figure they usually stick to married men. Less likely to report it, you know. Of course, it's something no man wants to admit." Enilroth suddenly felt bad.

"Then I guess you saved me," he said slowly. "I'd give you something to thank you, but as you know I don't have any coin." The Nord shook his head.

"No need, no need. Only tell me," here, his face grew serious, "why's a young man such as yourself running around here alone? Do your parents know where you are? Or are you…" He trailed off, leaving the question to speak for itself. Enilroth swallowed.

"My mother doesn't know I'm here," he said finally. "This is where I come, instead of school. I'm not much good at it, and she hates me for it." Before he knew it, he was telling Heinrich all about his problems. How terrible he was at school. How he and Hasathil fought. How they had moved from Bravil, and couldn't find a decent house to live in. How his mother hardly ever found work.

"And what of your father?" asked Heinrich. There was a gentle note in his tone.

"Dead, for all I know," said Enilroth, trying to keep any bitterness out of his voice.

"I see." For a few moments, Heinrich was silent. Then, he abruptly stood. "Why don't I walk you home?" he offered. "I'm sure your mother is worried. It's late." Enilroth nodded. He led the Nord sailor back into town, all the way to the little shack he called home. As the footsteps echoed on the porch, the door flew open and Hasathil leaped out, gathering Enilroth into her arms.

"Where have you been? I've been worried sick!" she scolded. Then she seemed to notice Heinrich. "Who's this?" she asked warily, taking a few steps back, pulling Enilroth with her.

"Mother, stop it!" Enilroth hissed. "He's my friend!" The Nord smiled, offering a weathered hand.

"Heinrich Oaken-Hull, ma'am. Sorry to keep your son. We were talking and didn't notice the time." He stole a quick glance at Enilroth out of the corner of his eye, and the boy smiled to himself. It was good to know Heinrich wouldn't rat him out. "But I was wondering if I could speak to you, ma'am. Privately."

"Enilroth, go upstairs," Hasathil commanded. Rolling his eyes behind her back, he complied. However, once he reached the top, he paused, crouching in the shadows and listening to the conversation below.

"The boy tells me he doesn't think much of school," Heinrich was saying. He heard his mother give a sigh.

"Yes but if he's going to go anywhere in life he needs an education. I keep telling him that, but he won't listen," she complained.

"Well, a Chapel education isn't his only option," Heinrich countered. Enilroth listened closer at this. "The boy's fourteen? Old enough for an apprenticeship. I have a friend here in town, a smith. He's been looking for a new apprentice, and I thought maybe Enilroth might be the man he's looking for." It was all Enilroth could do not to let out a cheer. He could live with being a smith. He had always been fascinated by weapons.

"I don't know," Hasathil was saying. His excitement drooped slightly. "He's still young. It's an awfully big decision…"

"Well, why don't you think about it? You and your son can talk it over, and let me know when you decide. I'd be more than happy to talk to Varel."

"We'll see." Hasathil's words were dismissive, but there was a wavering in her voice. There was hope. Enilroth secretly smiled to himself. But then, Heinrich started speaking again.

"You know, ma'am, I was wondering…" Oddly enough, there was a hint of nervousness in the Nord's tone for the first time. "Would you…care to have dinner with me? At the Count's Arms? The food is wonderful there, and Wilbur and I go way back." Enilroth's eyes grew wide.

"Well, you're certainly bold," Hasathil said. A flustered note was clearly evident in her voice. "I would like to, but—"

"Then it's settled," Heinrich said firmly. "Tomorrow? At seven?"

"Yes, yes…that would be…lovely." Enilroth grinned to himself. He didn't need to see his mother's face to know it had turned bright red.

"Until then, my lady." The thump of the wooden door let him know Heinrich had left. A few moments later, Hasathil entered the room to find Enilroth innocently musing over a book. He took one look at her and smiled. There was no need for her to say anything. Her glowing eyes said it all.


	9. Chapter Eight: Necromancing the Living

**Whoo, three in a day! These have actually been written for a while, it's just taken me until now to edit them.**

I own nothing.

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Chapter Eight: Necromancing the Living

I shivered against the raw late Sun's Dusk wind as I trudged through the Temple District. I was supposed to meet Ichabod at noon, but he had never showed up. I was about to return to Methredhel's house, when I saw a tall figure in a familiar green robe heading towards Talos Plaza. Naturally, I followed.

I caught up with him a little ways in, following him down a side street. "Hey." I caught the sleeve of his robe. "Where've you been? We were supposed to meet this morning." He looked down at me his golden skin pasty and his dark eyes rimmed with red.

"Sorry," he said quietly. "I was up all night. I've got to get this spell finished. There are still far too many problems with it for me to even consider presenting it." I couldn't help but feel slightly irritated.

"You do realize I sat out in the cold waiting for you for an hour?" I asked. "You are a mage, after all. You could have summoned something to bring me a message."

"Lily, you know that's beyond my abilities," he snapped, stalking ahead.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I demanded, hurrying after him. He whirled on me, eyes flashing.

"How many times have I explained this to you? Creatures summoned from Oblivion are never happy about it. They want to kill something. That's why, if you're only a student, such as myself, you only summon if there's an instructor there to help you, or if you need protection from something trying to kill you. And besides, the simplest creatures are also the most stupid. If I was going to send something with a message, it would have to be a Dremora. Which I wouldn't be able to control. But I couldn't have sent a message anyway, because I completely forgot. I said I was sorry.

"Okay," I said quietly, feeling hurt. For a few moments, there was silence. "So, how are the translations going?"

"Rather well. It's a journal of sorts. It was kept by a scribe stationed there towards the end. He was also the owner of your sword." My hand automatically went to the hilt, caressing it lightly. It hadn't left my side since he handed it back to me in Vilverin. "I still have a lot more to get through, but it's already giving us new information about them." He smiled faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes.

He had seemed cold and distant ever since the day we plundered the ruin, but I had contributed it to my imagination. Winter was close at hand, and I knew that before long, I wouldn't be able to make the trip up to Bruma to fence my stolen goods. Soon, the little gold I had saved would run out, and I would have no way of getting any more. Of course, gold was easiest to steal. Coins were small enough, and there was no way of proving that they did or didn't belong to you. But of course, most people weren't stupid enough to leave it where it could be stolen. So there was little I could earn from stealing only coins. I was going to have to resort to begging if I didn't find some kind of work soon—which was something I could not bring myself to do. Of course, there was always the Amulet.

I immediately shut that thought out as soon as it entered. After all the weeks I had spent in Chorrol, I had never ventured to Weynon Priory. For some reason even I didn't understand, I simply couldn't. Besides, I needed it. My life was so drastically different from what it had used to be, and there were times I felt as if I had been living on the Waterfront forever. The Amulet reminded me that there was more out there; things that I could never forget. I ignored the darkness pressing on my heart and turned to Ichabod.

"So what are you doing out here now? I mean, I thought you were too busy to leave your studies." He frowned deeply.

"Lily, stop it. You're just trying to make me feel bad, and it's not going to work. And for your information, I am delivering a book to a retired mage. Under orders from my instructors. If you approve, of course." I huffed angrily.

"No need to be so rude to me. I wouldn't think that keeping promises your friends would be such a bad thing, but to each his own. I have a life, too, and I didn't need to waste time sitting around waiting for you." He groaned, raking his fingers through his unruly brown hair.

"Lily, can we please drop this? I'm really not in the mood to argue."

"Fine," I snapped. "But…" I let the sentence trail off as we turned the corner. "What's going on?" A crowd of people was gathered in the streets, surrounding one of the houses further down.

"Beats me." Ichabod shrugged. "Master Vanin's house is right here, though. I'm just going to—"

"Oh, don't be like that." I grabbed his arm and tugged him down the street. "I want to see what's happening." I had always been lucky for my height, but bodies were packed so tightly together I could barely see through the crowd. I had to stand on my toes to catch a glimpse of anything. I could just make out what appeared to be several Legion guards keeping the crowd away from the steps, but I couldn't figure out why. Then, the door opened, and a white-armored figure stepped outside. My breath caught in my throat. It was my old enemy, Adamus Phillida himself.

"Citizens!" his voice rang out. "The property of Claudius Arcadia has been seized by the Imperial Legion. All citizens are reminded that rituals to the Night Mother, or any attempts to contact the Dark Brotherhood _will not be tolerated_! Thank you and good day." He then stepped down and strode away.

"Ah," Ichabod said sadly. "Claudius Arcadia." I frowned.

"Who?" Instead of answering, he ignored me, and turned back towards Master Vanin's house. "Ichabod!" I dashed after him. "What's going on? I don't understand!"

"You honestly don't know? It was all over the Black Horse Courier," he said, arching a single eyebrow.

"Well, we don't get many copies on the Waterfront! Tell me!" He sighed.

"Claudius Arcadia lived in that house," he explained. "He had a daughter. Last week, however, she ended up in some trouble. She was assaulted in an alleyway. Her attacker raped and murdered her."

"Oh, gods," I whispered.

"That's not all," Ichabod continued. "Apparently, Arcadia went into a rage when it happened. He said he would make sure the man who did it ended up dead. According to today's Black Horse Courier, he was discovered performing a Dark Brotherhood ritual in his basement last night. And now, this." He gestured over his shoulder to the slowly dispersing crowd.

I couldn't speak. I didn't know what to say. My hatred for Phillida returned in a sudden rush. How dare that wretched man? He was mad, completely and utterly mad. All poor Arcadia wanted was some retribution! Why hadn't the culprit been arrested?

"It sickens me," Ichabod said suddenly.

"What happened to that girl?"

"No, what her father did." I stopped, shocked at what I was hearing. "It's disgusting. Trying to get the Dark Brotherhood involved…" He shook his head. "He makes a mockery of his daughter's memory. It's like necromancy. Only far worse."

"How can you say that?" I whispered. I hated the tremor in my voice. "What, you think he should just be allowed to get away with it? Where's the justice in that?" I demanded.

"I don't think it should go unpunished. I just think he should let the Watch do its job. It's not his business to deal with it."

"Not his business?" My voice was quickly growing shrill. "I think it most certainly is his business! It's his daughter, for crying out loud!" The thought of what he was willing to do for her made my eyes burn. What a wonderful father he must have been. I wondered if she thought of him in her final moments, of how hard her death would hit him. His little girl, lost forever. My throat began to tighten.

"Yes, but the Dark Brotherhood? Sinking that low? Having someone assassinated makes him no better than his daughter's murderer. It's as if he had done it himself." By now, my rage had reached a boiling point.

"You," I hissed. "You're certainly the one to talk, aren't you? Just look at the high and mighty Altmer!" My voice was rising and heads were turning, but I didn't care. I was too angry. "Of course, you have the right to judge everyone! All powerful Altmer! Master of magicka! You're nothing but a stuck up snob with cheap parlor tricks! _Oblivion take you, High Elf! Oblivion take you!_"

My ears began to ring in the aftermath of silence. Everyone had gone quiet, standing there silently staring at us. I had gone too far; I knew it. After all, I had learned how to hurl insults from the best. Valen Dreth would be impressed. But I couldn't even move as I stood there staring at Ichabod. I had deeply hurt my best friend. His face was a deep crimson shade, and the corners of his mouth wobbled very slightly. Then, his face hardened. He lifted his chin and swept past me, never looking back once. Something inside of me curled up and died.

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**Short chapter, but to the point. Lily, Lily, Lily, what have you done?**


	10. Chapter Nine: The Fate of a Fool

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

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Chapter Nine: The Fate of a Fool

Rain battered against the windowpanes, but it didn't matter to me. I stood listlessly at the window, staring out into the night. Darkness blanketed the entire house; not even a single candle was lit. Only the outside lamps cast wavy patterns on the floor. The darkness was comforting, though, in a gentle, soothing sort of way. During the past couple weeks, my life had turned in a new direction, one that was all too familiar, not to mention painful.

Methredhel had kicked me out of her house, only a few days after my terrible fight with Ichabod. After Carwen and I had gotten into an explosive argument over an apple, Methredhel announced that she had finally had enough. One of us would have to go. And since legally the house partially belonged to Carwen, I was the one who had to go. Some nights, I could manage to stick around in an abandoned shack that other beggars would loiter in. Others, I was left outside in the cold. If it was this terrible in the City, I could only imagine what it was like in Bruma. Still, my options were running out. I was almost out of money, and I needed to make some more, quickly.

That was why I was morosely standing about in a stranger's house at one in the morning. I had picked up a few pieces of silver that could make me decent septims, but I was reluctant to go back out into the storm. So instead, I waited. In the end, I suppose it was a foolish thing to do, but at the time, it made sense. The rain beat hypnotically against the windows, drowning out all of my unpleasant thoughts. If it grew any colder, it would turn into sleet. I shivered a little, and that's when I heard it.

It was hardly noticeable, just a soft scuffle, but it was enough to make me lift my head. The scrape of a leather sole on a stone floor was all it took. His eyes widened as he saw me, but he did not draw out a weapon or call for help. He took a fleeting step back, as if he were about to run back up the stairs, but my mind had already gone into overdrive, and my body reacted.

A dark arc appeared on the pale wall as the Ayleid blade tore through his throat, its first taste of flesh in centuries. He let out a faint gurgle, then went limp, blood pooling outward and seeping into the expensive rug. I stood motionless, the ancient weapon buzzing in my upraised hand.

_Murder._ Oh gods. Oh gods, oh gods. The numbness shattered, and the realization of what I had just done surged over me. I had just taken a life in cold blood. I hadn't meant to; I just got scared and overreacted. But regret didn't change the state of the corpse before me. I suddenly felt an urge to vomit. I couldn't stay here. I fled.

The wind picked up, driving the rain sideways. Tiny ice pellets began to coat every exposed surface, including the worn threads of the bedroll I was huddled in. I pressed my body against the wall in hopes of deriving some shelter, but to no avail. Sometime in the faint hours before dawn, the voice spoke.

"You sleep rather soundly for a murderer." I hadn't even realized I had fallen asleep. I bolted upright, looking up at the shadowy figure looming over me. He was swathed entirely in black robes, but other than that, I could see very little of his appearance, save for an intense, dark pair of eyes and a sly grin. "That's good. You'll need a clear conscience for what I'm about to propose." Something deep inside my mind was screaming that this man was dangerous, that I should get away immediately, but I couldn't act on it. Instead, I just sat there, tangled in the filthy bedroll, meeting his gaze straight on. For some reason, he seemed to find this amusing.

"You prefer silence, then? As do I, dear child. As do I. For is not silence the symphony of death, the orchestration of Sithis himself? Ironic, then, that I come to you as Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood." My blood ran cold. Impossible. Was this a joke? Was Phillida on to me? But the man was still speaking.

"The Night Mother is most pleased. She's been watching you, observing as you end life without pity or remorse. That's why I come to you with an offering, an opportunity to join our unique…family." With a sinking sensation, I realized he was completely serious. The Dark Brotherhood was recruiting me. This didn't go unnoticed by him.

"So I have your rapt attention. Good. Now listen closely. On the Green Road, north of Bravil, lies the Inn of Ill Omen. There you will find a man named _Rufio_." His eyes narrowed dangerously at the name. "Kill him, and your initiation to the Dark Brotherhood will be complete. The next time you sleep in a location I deem secure, I will reveal myself once more, bearing the love of your new family." He withdrew something from the folds of his robe, holding it out to me. "Please accept this token from the Dark Brotherhood. It is a virgin blade, and thirsts for blood. May it serve you well, as does your silence." That twisted smile, which hadn't left his face during the entire exchange, shifted, and for an instant, he regarded me with an unreadable expression. Then the air rippled and he was gone. I was alone. I could have imagined the whole thing. Except that I was holding his dagger.

I turned it over in my hands, considering it. It was made of ebony decorated with gold, sleek, dark, and deadly. Clutching the hilt, I felt a tingling run through my hand, similar to what I experienced when I held my sword. The same sword that had tasted innocent blood only hours earlier. I don't know how long I sat there, at war with myself. I wasn't a killer. Or was I?

Maybe it was, as would later be suggested, destiny. Or maybe it was just the sheer desperation of having no other options. But in the end, the cause doesn't really matter. What does matter is that by nightfall on the third of Evening Star, 3E433, I was walking in the front door of the Inn of Ill Omen.

As soon as the door shut behind me, my heart started racing. I hadn't thought out what I was actually planning to do. What if I got caught? I hesitated, huddling in an alcove just inside the door. "Evening, Manheim," I heard a woman's voice say. "Rufio been out of his room today?" Instantly, my ears perked up. A man gave a heavy sigh.

"Nope. Old codger hasn't left the basement in days." Basement? I looked down to see a trapdoor under my feet. Hardly believing my luck, I eased it up and crawled down, hoping they wouldn't hear. Underneath, I blinked in the dim light. I was in a stone hallway, with a solitary torch flickering at the end. To my left were two wooden doors. If what that man had said was correct, Rufio should be behind one of them. The first one, after I picked it open, turned out to be an empty room. It was dark and dusty, and looked like no one had been in there for a while. The second, however, was open.

And there, I found Rufio. He was old and balding, with a sagging gut and wrinkled face. As I watched him, I felt a reluctance creep over me. He was just an old man. He wasn't hurting anyone. But then he jerked awake. He blinked several times before he noticed me standing there.

"Who're you? What d'ya want? I ain't done nothin'!" When I didn't reply, he grew even more frantic. "No! Please! I didn't mean to do it, you understand me? She struggled! I…I told her to just stay still, but she wouldn't listen! I had no choice!" And then it dawned on me, the reason I had been sent to kill this man. At that same moment, he tried to dart past me to the door. He never made it.

I snatched him by the collar, my other hand whipping out the dagger and plunging it into his throat. He struggled wildly, scratching my face and grabbing hold of a handful of my hair. The virgin blade screamed for more, and I obliged, jerking it free and stabbing again and again, until I realized that the first blow had all but killed him. I let his limp body crumple to the floor in a pool of his blood, staring down at him with venom in my eyes.

Claudius Arcadia's daughter had been raped and murdered. He contacted the Dark Brotherhood for revenge. They sent me to kill a man who was a rapist and a murderer. A coincidence, perhaps? I didn't think so. Justice had been served. _Is this necromancy, Ichabod? Is it really?_ A life for a life. The wretched old fool had paid the price. The girl had been avenged.

Suddenly, I realized that I was standing over the body of the man I had just killed, soaked in his blood. If someone were to walk down here, Adamus Phillida would have my head. Literally. Seeing that no one had come running at the sound of our scuffle, I assumed I was safe enough for the moment. However, I couldn't stay.

Stripping the linens from the bed, I used them to wipe the blood from my face and arms. There was little I could do about the blood matted in my hair and clothing at the moment, but that could be dealt with later. Satisfied, I slipped out the door and shut it behind me. With any luck, his body would only be discovered when the smell began to waft up through the floorboards. I entered the next room and quietly curled up on the floor, not wanting to leave bloodstains on the bed. Within moments, I was asleep.

When I awoke, I familiar shadow was standing over me. "So, the deed is done," the Speaker observed, a smile creeping over his face. "Now heed these words. The slaying of Rufio was the signing of a contract, the manner of execution, your signature, Rufio's blood, the ink. As Speaker of the Black Hand, I oversee a particular group of family members. You will join that group, and fulfill any contracts given. You must go to the city of Cheydinhal, to the abandoned house near the eastern wall, and attempt to open the black door. You will be asked a question. Answer thusly, 'Sanguine, my brother.' Once you are inside, speak with Ocheeva."

He watched me carefully for a moment, waiting for me to question or comment on his instructions. When I did neither, he smiled once again. "Now we must take our leave of each other, you and I, for there is much work to be done. I'll be following your…progress. Welcome to the family." The air shimmered, and he was gone.

I stiffly crawled to my feet, running a hand through my tangled hair as I considered my next move. So it was off to Cheydinhal. I made it out of the cellar without detection, and stepped out into the biting wind. I shivered, wishing I had a cloak, or a set of fur armor. I wondered how beggars managed to survive winters out in the elements. The Speaker had spoken of the Dark Brotherhood as a family. Although I had a hard time imagining assassins as the loving caring type, I certainly hoped they wouldn't allow their "family members" to live in the streets. Regardless, I pushed forward against the wind.

By the time I was on the Red Ring Road, tiny snowflakes began to spiral down and form little eddies on the road. And when I finally reached Cheydinhal, I was treading through ankle-deep drifts of snow. The guard who let me in seemed to pay little attention to anything other than his own misery, which I suppose was a good thing, considering my sinister purpose. However, I, too, was more worried about other things.

I had lost sensation in my toes long ago, and I was half afraid that I would end up losing them. Shivering violently, I wandered through the streets, completely lost. The layout of this city confused me, and the vague directions didn't help. All I knew was that I was supposed to find the east wall, but in the snowstorm, I had no idea which direction I was headed. It may have only been fifteen minutes, but it felt like I wandered for hours.

And then I saw it. A black hole along a street of candle-lit windows, it was literally falling to pieces. Nearly tripping over the fallen gate buried in the snow, I made my way to the front door. It appeared to be boarded up, but I realized the boards were only nailed to the door, not the frame. My numb hands fumbled with the lock. I broke three lockpicks in the process, but finally, it sprung open and I stepped inside.

Inside, it was cold, but still a relief from the howling wind outside. There were no signs of activity anywhere in the house, so I made my way to the basement. The candles let me know I was on the right track, and I followed them through a gap in the wall, to a tunnel flooded with a deep crimson light. And there was the black door.

The floor in front of it was stained with a dark something that might have been blood, but the door itself was a far more grim sight. The intricately carved figures portrayed a woman threatening cowering figures under the grinning gaze of a skull. And at the very top was a bold handprint, from which the light seemed to be coming. Taking a deep breath, I grasped the handle. A raspy voice echoed through the cavern. "_What is the color of night?_" it demanded.

My voice was stuck in my throat, but I managed to choke out the answer. "Sanguine, my brother," I croaked. The door instantly swung inward.

"Welcome home," it whispered. I took a few tentative steps inside, towards the figure standing at the end of the tunnel. I emerged from the red glow into the familiar light of torches. The tall, slim Argonian woman standing before me smiled broadly.

"Welcome!" she greeted. The warmth in her tone surprised me. I was expecting a far more austere greeting. "I am Ocheeva, mistress of this Sanctuary. It is always a pleasure to welcome another Dark Sister. Truly, the Night Mother smiles upon her favored daughters." She gave a secretive smile, as if we were sharing a private joke. "Lucien has told us much about you," she added with a chuckle.

"Lucien?" I questioned.

"Lucien Lachance, the Speaker who recruited you. You made quite an impression on him—not an easy thing to do, I might add." I didn't know how to respond to that. I gazed at my feet, scuffing my toe along the floor. When I looked back up, she was regarding me carefully.

"He did say that you don't talk much," she observed. I shrugged my shoulders. Whatever I had been expecting, it certainly wasn't this degree of familiarity. "Well, perhaps when you get to know us better," she relented. "For now, though, you need a bath. And some dry clothes. Come with me." Nothing had ever sounded so appealing. I gave a grateful smile before following her down a hallway. She drew a curtain aside to reveal a steaming tub.

"When you're done, report to Vicente Valtieri. He will assign you your contracts." And then she was gone. I peeled off my filthy, dripping rags, depositing them onto the floor, and stepping into the warm water. It was the first real bath I had had in eight months. The water turned a light red as I scrubbed away the last of Rufio's blood. I suddenly began to giggle as the irony of the entire situation finally settled over me. By accusing me of being an assassin, Phillida had actually caused me to become one. Because that was what I was now. I let myself laugh uncontrollably, tears running down my face and limbs jerking spastically. Phillida, you pompous old fool.

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**A/N: Finally, on to the actual plot!**


	11. Chapter Ten: Welcome to the Family

**A/N: I'm back! Yeah...kind of went on impromptu hiatus there. Sorry about that, life got in the way. BUT I'm now at a place where I can fully commit to this story once again, so expect semi-regular updates. We're really moving into the meat of the story here, so get ready. Go back and read earlier chapters if you've forgotten what happened, leave lots of reviews, and, most importantly, enjoy!**

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Chapter Ten: Welcome to the Family

_Vicente Valtieri_

"Listen," a girl's voice hissed. Vicente Valtieri glanced up from his reading, cocking his head toward the door. "Vicente is a little…intense. Don't let him intimidate you." He sighed and turned back to his reading. Three years had passed since Antoinetta Marie had arrived at the Sanctuary, and in those three years, she had never quite grasped the fact that his sense of hearing was much sharper than the average person's. As a result, she unknowingly insulted him to his face on a constant basis.

It wasn't that he didn't like Ann. She was a clever and resourceful, and there was no denying her fierce loyalty to her Family. She just wasn't a good assassin. The girl was broken; he understood that. But the Dark Brotherhood just wasn't the place for a girl who would rather cook and sew than shed blood.

A hesitant knock told him the Brotherhood's newest member was ready to make his acquaintance. "Enter!" he called. There was a faint scrabbling as the heavy door protested, then it burst open, nearly knocking its victim to the ground. As the girl collected herself, he caught glimpse of Ann's silvery blond hair disappearing around the corner. He turned his attention back to the other girl.

"Quite one for an entrance, eh?" he chuckled. The girl flush bright pink at this remark, but the blood quickly drained from her face as she took her first look at his him. It was the normal reaction. If his sunken, drawn features and unnaturally pointed teeth didn't daunt them, his bloody eyes did it. Cleary, this girl was no exception. "Come closer, there's no need to be frightened. I assure you, the needs of this Sanctuary and my family always come before my own needs as a vampire."

The girl eyed him warily for a moment, then slowly approached, her gaze fastened to the ground. "Sit down, little Sister." He softened his tone a little this time. There was no need to terrorize the girl. At least not yet. She obeyed, not looking up from her lap, where her hands were securely folded. As she sat there in silence, he quietly appraised her.

Her name was Lily, Lucien had informed him, but it was clearly an alias. No Bosmer by that name had ever been born in any of the Imperial provinces. No wonder, though, after what she had done. Who would have thought, though? To all appearances, she was just an ordinary young woman, nothing remarkable about her in the slightest. But there was the way she held herself, perfectly still, but not stiff; seemingly relaxed, but ready to spring into action at any moment. Perhaps he could make an assassin out of her, he mused to himself.

"So, dearest Lily," he began. She started, eyes flashing up to his before darting back down again. He found a smirk spreading across his face in spite of himself. So maybe she was no assassin yet. No matter. He could change that. "Tell me what brings you to our family." Her only response was a slight shrug of her shoulders. "You enjoy taking lives, do you not?" At that, she visibly flinched. Oh yes. There was much work to be done with this one. However, he couldn't help but let another chuckle escape.

"You needn't act so horrified on my behalf. I am fully aware of the fact that you have already managed to claim ten unwilling lives in your eighteen years. And I assure you, that is nothing compared to anyone else in this Sanctuary. We're all killers here, Lily. That's what makes us family." For the first time, her gaze met his directly, and locked into it instead of darting away. "You can't deny what you are," he told her sternly. "The Night Mother knows you, perhaps better than you know yourself. She has chosen you to accomplish Sithis' bidding, and so you shall."

A faint feeling of disgust welled up in him as tears began to form in the corners of her eyes. "Go. You are a complete mess right now," he ordered abruptly. "I will meet you in the training room in the morning." He waved his hand dismissively, and the girl fled. A few minutes later, he heard Ann's voice from the hallway, punctuated by the new girl's sobs. He strode across the room and pulled the door shut, mercifully muffling the cacophony. He sat back down at his desk, burying his head in his hands.

What was Lucien thinking? The Night Mother would, of course, choose who she would, but this was getting ridiculous. Like it or not, there was the typical archetype of an assassin: thirties or forties, a loner, a history of crime, and usually, a fair amount of combat experience. You couldn't just bring in children and expect them to be proficient killers. Of course, there were always exceptions, but a sour feeling arose with that thought, and he pushed it down quickly. He would have to have a serious talk with Lucien one of these days.

A lot of good that would do, though. He had known Lucien since he first came to the sanctuary as a lowly Murderer, a smirking, sarcastic young fool with a chip on his shoulder. He quickly made enemies with authority figures, but he had seemed to regard Vicente as a mentor of sorts. He had come far, and Vicente was proud of him, but sadly, he still insisted on learning things the hard way.

A waft of musky perfume let him know that Ocheeva had entered the room. "Did you have to scare her?" the Sanctuary's mistress scolded softly. He looked up into her scornful face. He respected Ocheeva greatly, but running the Sanctuary would be so much easier if she would simply do her duties and allow him to do his in peace. However, she felt much differently.

"Ocheeva, you surely do understand that was not my intent. But the girl reacted badly. If you would like my honest opinion, I am not entirely certain she was meant for this."

"The Night Mother chose her!" she insisted. "If you want _my _opinion, she would have handled it better if you hadn't gone out of your way to frighten her! We're her family!"

"We are a family, yes, but we are a family of killers. Our bonds are forged in blood and death. This is not a nursery, and we needn't treat it as such." He turned back to the desk and began shuffling papers around in an attempt to look busy, hoping the woman would take the hint and leave. But it was a fight she was looking for.

"_You leave Antoinetta Marie out of this_," she hissed her eyes narrowing into crimson slits. Her fists clenched, and he saw one creep towards her dagger.

"I said nothing about Antoinetta!" he barked, rising from his chair and slightly baring his fangs. Most would have backed down immediately, but Ocheeva seemed to fully welcome the challenge.

"Oh, yes you did. Always, you complain about the poor girl, undermining her abilities and pointing out her flaws. And then you wonder why she behaves like a frightened rabbit? Because you make sure of it! You doom her to failure every time!"

"That is false," he snarled. "Antoinetta is a fine assassin, when she does not allow silly distractions to get in her way. However, that is exactly what happens every time. She should not be here."

"Now, you listen to me, Vicente Valtieri," Ocheeva shrilled. "Antoinetta—"

"No, you listen," he cut her off midsentence. "I have known you for thirty years, Ocheeva. You have come far, much farther than many of your brothers and sisters ever will, and you do a fine job running this Sanctuary. You know how to unite your family, and how to utilize each member's individual talents. But you forget, I was an Executioner while you were still in your egg. I have seen much, and have learned even more. Sanctuary heads, Speakers, Listeners—they come and go. But _I _remain. And I know enough to know that Antoinetta will never be an assassin. She has useful talents, to be sure, but you would do well to acknowledge her weaknesses. You are doing her no favors by pretending they do not exist. You will get her killed if you continue to do so." For once, Ocheeva was speechless. "And as for this other girl, I will admit, I do not yet have enough information to make a proper assessment. I made a hasty judgment, and for that, I do apologize."

For a few moments, Ocheeva was silent. Vicente let his stance relax, knowing he'd won—for now. Then she spoke. "I have a lot of confidence in Lily. And I think having her around will be good for Antoinetta." With that, she turned sharply on her heel and stalked from the room. Vicente released the breath he had been holding in since she entered the room. Ocheeva was fiery and stubborn—traits that made her an invaluable asset to the Brotherhood, yet impossible to work with it. For thirty years, she had served Sithis, and had finally made it to the top—at least as close to the top as one could get without being a part of the Black Hand. Farther than Vicente had in two hundred.

He wasn't bitter, though. He understood. Having a vampire in such a position would not be advantageous for the Brotherhood. His condition would prevent him from fulfilling the duties of a Speaker: the Black Hand was out of the question, of course. And as for taking charge of a Sanctuary… "You're not a 'people' person, Vicente," a Listener had told him once. And she had been absolutely right. He could never deal with Ann with the patience that Ocheeva did. He wondered if it was simply a joke that he had been placed in charge of new recruits, considering that most tended to drive him mad. He could only imagine how much worse it would be to have to deal with them on a daily basis. Still, it was frustrating at times to see young upstarts placed in positions that he do a far better job in. With another sigh, he stood, slipping his cloak around his shoulders. He needed to hunt.

In the morning, the girl—Lily, he reminded himself—was waiting for him in the training room. Her face was pale—no doubt due to a sleepless night. He knew Ann's nightmares were getting worse; he himself had heard the screams all the way from his chambers. But despite her obvious weariness, she wore a mask of deadly resolve, and this time, she stood straight and actually looked him in the eye. Perhaps there was hope for her after all.

He soon discovered that she had no combat training in the slightest. Her previous kills had clearly been based solely on luck—or perhaps fate. Perhaps the Night Mother had brought her here for a reason. But that did not change her appalling lack of skills. Day and night, he forced her through the same grueling drills he had gone through centuries ago. As a child in Wayrest, his father had been relentless, determined that his son would be an invincible warrior. Three hundred years later, he still wasn't invincible, but he was damn good, and if he had anything to do with it, Lily would be, too. Of course, she had a long, long way to go, but he couldn't help but admire the fact that she didn't cave easily. No matter what he put her through, no matter how exhausted she was, her jaw would tighten, and she would press on. But she was painfully inexperienced, and he felt himself growing increasingly frustrated.

One night, several weeks after Lily's arrival, he was hunting outside of the city walls when he heard the ringing thud of metal on wood, mixed with rather familiar voices. He crept closer through the damp snowfall, straining to hear what was being said. "It's all Vicente's idea," a girl announced. Ann. Who else was with her? Gogron's deep grating chuckle sounded.

"I wouldn't say that," he boomed. "More like Ocheeva's." He grunted. "Telaendril's gonna be so mad…" he muttered.

"But how is this going to make him happy?" a third voice asked. He sighed. He just couldn't get away from his inapt pupil, no matter where he went.

"Ocheeva just tries to appease him," Ann explained. "She thinks Saturalia celebrations make him forget about how much he hates us." There was a slight pause. "I don't think it works."

"I wouldn't say he hates you, Annie," Gogron cut in. "He's just a serious fellow. Forgets what it's like to be young."

"I'll say," Ann sniffed. "He's _never _happy unless he's yelling at someone." Vicente sighed deeply to himself, rubbing his temples. That was, of course, the main disadvantage of having lived as long as he had. He could never seem to relate to the younger generation. Of course, they would always grow older, but still—look at Ocheeva. The girl couldn't seem to grasp the fact that it was useless to coddle an assassin.

"But _shouldn't_ he take things seriously? I mean, you said he's been here a long time. Maybe he's just seen a lot go wrong, and doesn't want it to happen again." To his surprise, Lily rose to his defense.

"Whose side are you on, Lily?" Ann wailed.

"No, no, I just meant…" He began to slink back through the trees, tuning the rest of the conversation out. He knew he was gruff, and he knew most of the Sanctuary was secretly terrified of him, but it was frustrating to hear it expressed. However, he was rather surprised that Lily seemed to understand his reasoning. Perhaps he was getting through to her after all.

He returned to the Sanctuary shortly before sunrise, to find the tree Gogron had been felling standing in the center of the living quarters, alight with glowing colors (courtesy of M'raaj-Dar), the table practically buckling under the weight of the feast spread out on it, and the family members enthusiastically exchanging gifts. He stood apart from it all, quietly observing. In truth, these celebrations just made him feel miserable. It had been centuries since he had seen Wayrest, and in all likelihood, he never would again. While vampirism did have its advantages, it made such long journeys out of the question. However, the look on Lily's face when he caught her eye and gave her a small smile was priceless.

Three weeks later, he looked up from his paperwork as a commotion broke out in the upper level of the Sanctuary. "She's back!" he heard Teinaava howl. A few moments later, Lily appeared in the doorway, soaked in blood and wearing a weary expression.

"Well?" he asked quietly.

"He's dead." Her voice was so soft as to be a whisper. "I missed his heart the first time, but he's dead now. No one heard. At least no one came to check. So it's all good."

He nodded coolly. "Sithis is satisfied. Here is your payment." She took the small sack of coins wordlessly and left the room. Once she was gone, he allowed himself to break out into a huge grin. Not bad for a first contract. Success. He went back to writing up next week's contracts.


	12. Chapter 11: Secrets and Shadows

**A/N: I don't think I included it last chapter, but nothing has changed. I still don't own Oblivion, or the Elder Scrolls, yada yada yada.**

**WARNING: This chapter is rated M for violence and gore, including a torture scene. Read at you own risk. [Just in case. So you can't say I didn't warn you :)]**

**And cola1806, thank you so much for the review. The only way to find out is to keep reading!**

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Chapter 11: Secrets and Shadows

Cheydinhal had made me love mornings again. Actually, it had made me love everything again. As I stepped out the door, I pulled my cloak more tightly around me against the chill, but that didn't stop me from deeply inhaling. The air was cold, but it didn't burn as I pulled it into my lungs. The heavy mist that came with the mornings made sure of that. By mid-morning, though, it would have burned off, and would just be another winter day. But despite it all, I loved Cheydinhal. It was quickly becoming my home, and, whether I liked it or not, the Dark Brotherhood, my family. For the one thing I did not relish about my new life was my job.

Making the kills themselves was easy. Vicente Valtieri had trained me, and if anything Teinaava said was true, he was the best. To him, it was a science, and I was quickly coming to view it in the same way. But when he spoke of the "thrill" or "glory" of the kill, I was lost. Because deep down, I hated it. I hated those few horrible moments in which their eyes would gleam so brightly with fear. I hated watching that light slowly fade to nothingness. But most of all, I hated the thoughts of the lives I had snuffed out afterwards. Who were they? Who was _I_, that I could force them to such a brutal end?

But I was in too deep, I had discovered, and there was no going back now. Not because I feared the Brotherhood's wrath, but rather because I finally had a family again. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I belonged somewhere. Ann had immediately seemed to regard me as a big sister, tagging after me like Schemer did M'raaj-Dar. Teinaava and Gogron were like the protective big brothers I'd always wanted to have, and as deadly as Ocheeva could be, she was also sweet and motherly in the way she fussed over each resident of the Sanctuary. Telaendril was hardly ever there, though, and M'raaj-Dar…well, M'raaj-Dar hated everyone. Except for Schemer. I had to smile at that image. Although the Khajiit insisted that the Tenets were the only thing that kept him from killing him, I had seen him scratch the rat's ears and slip him a bit of cheese on occasion.

"Lily!" I started at the sound of my name, turning to see Ann sprinting down the street toward me, no cloak, no shoes. "Lily, wait," she panted, scrambling to a stop next to me.

"Ann, have you lost your mind? What are you doing out here? You'll freeze!"

"Y-you f-forgot the lunch I m-made you," she managed, despite her chattering teeth. "I-I don't want you to get h-hungry." She offered me the small sack she was clutching.

"Oh, Ann!" I slipped the cloak from my shoulders and wrapped it around her small frame, wincing as a rush of cold air hit my body, then taking her firmly by the arms and forcing her to look directly at me. "Go straight home and get warmed up. And never go out like this again!" I glanced around and noticed a guard watching us. "Besides, we really shouldn't be seen like this. You know." I slightly indicated my head towards the guard, and she nodded furiously.

"Good luck!" she called out, quickly darting back in the direction she had come. I sighed and continued out of the city. Now I didn't have my cloak. Damn. Oh, well. I would live. Besides, I was headed to Leyawiin. I would have ended up being too warm anyway.

I managed to catch a ride from a passing trade caravan, and by the end of the day, I had reached Leyawiin. It was a warm evening—unseasonably so, even for Leyawiin—and the air was thick and muggy. Despite the oppressive warmth, I still felt the icy fingers of a chill running down my back, but I attributed it to nerves. After all, I was being sent to infiltrate Castle Leyawiin.

The entire contract was strange, no doubt about it. For one thing, it seemed like too great of a responsibility for a Murderer. And secondly, there was a rather disturbing lack of information. All I had been told of my target was that he was "a thin man, with a full, dark beard and a scar over his right eye" and that I would find him "within the bowels of Castle Leyawiin." I had no idea how I was supposed to interpret that. Furthermore, I had no idea how I was going to get myself in. The image of Gogron toting his enormous axe trying to sneak in the front door suddenly appeared in my head, and I had to stifle a giggle. So, perhaps someone of a higher rank may _not _have been a guarantee of getting the contract done.

Anyhow. Down to business. The phrase "bowels of Castle Leyawiin" made me think of someplace underground—perhaps the dungeons. I would start there. However, I couldn't just waltz in—some stealth would definitely be required. I thought of using my birthsign, but decided against it. Depending on what I ended up running into, I might have more use for it later on. According to Vicente Valtieri, though, I would be just as well-hidden if I didn't attempt to hide. _"Both the Legion and City Guard are made up of simple creatures, bound entirely by protocol. To them, if you behave suspiciously, then you _are _suspicious. Give them no reason to think so, and they will believe you are no threat."_ So instead of melting into shadow, or donning a ridiculous disguise, I removed my hood, shook out my long, deep red hair, and forced a small, polite smile onto my face. Head held high, I strode across the castle courtyard, nodding to each guard I met. My heart was thumping terribly, but my teacher had been right. None of them hardly gave me a second glance.

However, that was not the case once I had descended the stairs into the dungeon and turned the corner. I was met by a guard who gave a deep frown. "May I help you, miss?" he asked, his tone clearly indicating that it was a rhetorical question. I simply smiled more broadly.

"Yes," I announced, ignoring the way his eyebrows tilted up at the inner corners. "My lord has sent me on a bit of a manhunt, and he has reason to believe I might find the one he seeks here." It was true, technically speaking. Still, I was surprised at how easily it slid from my mouth. My speechcraft had _greatly _improved—thanks to Ann; it was the poor girl's one true talent. I was scrambling to invent new lies to back up the half-truth I had just told, but to my surprise, his face relaxed.

"Ah, yes, I know just the fellow you mean." His tone was considerably more agreeable, but I doubted we were speaking of the same person—he clearly thought I was an enforcer sent by a powerful noble. Probably a prisoner had given him trouble, and thought I was there to deal with it. It was the only explanation for the ease of that encounter. _"I make a living off the hopes of fools" _was a favorite saying of Teinaava's—and it was only too true. "This way." He led me down the hallway, unlocked a door, then turned back to me. "Just make it quick," he muttered under his breath before making his way back to his station, leaving me alone in the dankness of the prison. A memory surfaced, but I pushed it back down. This was no time to get distracted.

"Pssssst! Lily!" I jumped, practically hitting the ceiling. "It is you, right?" The harsh accent was strangely familiar. I slowly approached the cell it was coming from, then blinked in surprise.

"Amusei?" It had been nearly six months since I had seen the Argonian, but there he was, glaring balefully at me. "What are you doing here?"

"What does it look like?" he hissed. "That bitch of a countess threw me in here! For trying to give her back a stupid ring. Evil bitch!" I couldn't help but crack a genuine smile. Always one for dramatics, he was.

"Look, Amusei." I stepped closer to the bars. "I need your help. I'm trying to find someone."

"Hah!" he snorted. "And what will you do for poor Amusei?" I cocked an eyebrow.

"How does a lockpick sound?" His eyes lit up.

"Give it!" He grabbed through the bars, but I snatched it just out of reach.

"Don't leave until I've been gone at least a day," I warned. "The last thing I need is to get thrown in here with you. Then where would either of us be?"

"You think I am stupid?" he snarled. I relented, bringing it back within his reach. He took it cautiously, pausing to kiss it before quietly pocketing it. "Now," he said, his tone business-like. "What can Amusei do to help the dearest friend he has ever known?" I rolled my eyes.

"Oh, spare me," I said wryly. We shared a small chuckle, and I continued. "I've been told I'll find the man I'm looking for here." As I relayed the description, his smile faded and his face slowly darkened.

"Him," he growled, resting his head against the cold iron of his cell door. He gave a long sigh. "Lily, I do not know why you are looking for this man, and I will not ask. But I will warn you, be very, _very_ careful."

"Why?" I leaned in closer.

"I have not seen him in person," he admitted, "but I have heard of him. The guards, and sometimes other prisoners—they talk, you see." I nodded slowly, waiting for him to continue. His voice dropped to a whisper. "In the heart of this castle, there is a…secret room. It is a terrible, terrible place." He bowed his head. "It is where Argonian prisoners—immigrants from Black Marsh—are _tortured_." Poison crept into his tone at this last word. "And this man, he is…" His voice trailed off, but I understood. "In the castle basement, there is a barrel with a lever inside. Pull it, and you will find the entrance." He started as I reached through the bars to grasp one of his hands.

"Don't worry, Amusei," I whispered. "It's going to be all right." I headed towards the door.

"Lily." His voice stopped me. I turned back, questioningly. "Remember. Be careful." I nodded, and was gone.

The castle hall was, luckily, deserted as I passed through, and the basement was empty as well. I found the barrel with the lever inside, just as Amusei had said, and sure enough, a portion of the stone wall swung inward with a slow clunking to reveal a cobweb-filled passageway. I made my way through it to the end, where a wooden door awaited me. My hand was on the latch, preparing to lift it, when I heard it.

It was the most horrible sound I had ever heard—a high pitched scream of terror and pain, as though a baby goat was slowly, painfully being chopped to pieces—while it was still alive. Immediately, I called for the Shadow, cloaking myself in darkness, and cracked the door open. When there was no response—except for the terrible, continuous screams—I slipped inside. What awaited me was the most gruesome sight I had ever seen.

A small Argonian child—no more than six, at least—was chained to a crude wooden table. Even from across the room, I could see broken, crushed limbs sticking out at all angles. His tiny torso was exposed, covered with deep gashes, blood trickling from the edges. A man with his back turned blocked the rest of his body, and I had no doubt, I had found my target. "What's that?" a thin, nasal voice asked. "The Countess can't hear you." The knife in his hand bored deep into that trembling little body, and the boy let out another heart-wrenching wail. And another, and another, as the torture continued. I realized I had a black-gloved fist clamped in my mouth to keep myself from screaming.

A feminine titter sounded, and I looked over to see a row of well-dressed figures sitting in high-backed chairs against the opposite wall. A woman in green silk—who I took to be the Countess—had a delicate had pressed to her peony of a mouth, in a clearly staged attempt to prevent herself from giggling out loud. Her chocolate eyes were bright and dancing as she observed the child's suffering. I hated her. The shrieks continued for what seemed like hours, until they gradually faded. His pathetic, broken little tail curled up sharply, then fell limply over the side of the table. Unconscious.

A tall, balding man dressed in dark velvet stood and took the Countess by the arm. "I think that's enough for tonight," he declared in a lazy, wheedling tone. I wanted to bash his stupid face in. "Come, my love." He escorted his wife from the room, pausing to clap my target on the shoulder. They disappeared down a passageway on the other side of the room, and I was left alone to do Sithis' bidding. _Focus, Lily._ I firmly gave myself the order to reign in my emotions, and willed my breathing to slow with all my might. I felt my head begin to clear, and I stood from where I had been crouched inside the door that entire time.

Ann had once told me that she heard Sithis whisper in her ear before killings, and at the time, I had written it off as a product of her overactive imagination. But now, I had some sense of what she had meant. The air around me was alive, and I could almost hear a voice crackling through it. I crossed the room with the bold, easy stride of a lioness. Even if he were to turn to face me, he would see nothing, not even a shadow. I slunk to his side, standing on tiptoe to lean over his right shoulder. "Sithis needs your soul." His eye, the one crossed by the scar, widened in terror, but before he could let out a sound, my hand clamped over his face, cutting off his air and jerking him off balance. For a moment, his arms flailed wildly as he let out a muffled yell, and then my dagger sliced through his throat, neatly severing the main arteries. It was no longer a virgin, but it was still very, very thirsty, and I was more than happy to oblige. A crimson shower gushed from his neck, and he went still. I let his body drop. A clean kill—my first, actually. A certain vampire would be very pleased.

With the air finally quiet, I turned to the boy. He was still unconscious, but I could see the strips of clean scales where tears had made their way down his grimy face. It was an impulse decision. A heavy cloak—presumably having formerly belonged to Mr. Now-Bathing-In His-Own-Blood—was draped over a nearby crate, and I grabbed it, flinging it over his unmoving body. A key hanging on a nearby post unlocked his chains, and I scooped him up in my arms, bundling him inside the cloak. For a single, terrible moment, I could still clearly see him, seemingly suspended in mid-air, but then the shape of his outline faded, disappearing into my own. And I fled.

I hurried through the night, huffing a bit more than usual, but not too terribly, considering the extra weight. He was unnaturally light. It was dark, no moons or stars, but the streetlamps gave off enough light for me to see where I was going. And by the time I reached the other side of town, we were both completely visible again. I slammed through the Chapel doors, one swinging back so hard it clattered against the wall. "Help me!" I shouted. "I need help _now!_ Help!" For a moment there was silence, but then I heard doors slamming, and footsteps came clattering up the stairs. A frail-looking Dunmer with pale grey skin and hair appeared at the opening.

"I'm Avrus Adas, Priest of Zenithar," he introduced himself. "What is the nature of your trouble, miss?" I glanced helplessly at the bundle in my arms.

"Help him," I whispered, as the tears I had been holding back all night finally came spilling forth of their own accord. A corner of the cloak fell away, revealing his battered face, and Adas let out a gasp.

"Oh my. May the Nine have mercy," he whispered. Then he turned to his companion, a sharp-eyed Imperial, who had been observing in silence. "Go. Get Silana. Hurry!" The other man disappeared, and he turned back to me. "This way, dear. Please, do not let yourself be troubled. Silana will help him." His tone was reassuring, but I could see the horror in his eyes.

He escorted us down the stairs and into the Chapel Hall. Inside, the other man from before was clearing dishes from a wide, polished table. A pretty Imperial woman, no more than a few years older than myself, appeared from behind a pillar, carrying what appeared to be a basket full of assorted potion bottles. "Put him here," she ordered in a soft but firm tone, gesturing towards the now-bare table. I let him slowly slide from my arms, and she whisked away the cloak. Letting it drop to the floor, she slipped a blanket beneath his head and immediately began to inspect his wounds. In a few moments she glanced up at me, her face grim. "I'm guessing I don't want to know what happened." I nodded dully, dropping my gaze to the child's face. "Hey." I looked back up to meet her dark eyes—large and doe-like like Ichabod's. "You did the right thing by bringing him here, but I'll be honest with you. He's in very bad shape. I don't know what I can do for him, but I'll try everything I can." I nodded, then stepped back and let her commence with her work.

I must have dozed off, but a gentle hand on my shoulder awakened me. "I'm going to move him to my room now," she whispered, crouching by the chair I had dropped into. "He's okay for now, but…" She took a long, shaky breath, and I saw that she, too, was fighting tears. "He's…his injuries…" Another breath, and she seemed to find her composure. "He's bleeding from the inside. I can't do anything about that without powerful magic." She paused. "I would say he needs to be taken to Arcane University for more specialized treatment, but I don't think he'll survive the journey. In fact," she swallowed, "I don't even think he'll survive the night." By then, there were tears dripping down both her face and my own. "All we can do now is make his last hours as comfortable as possible."

Together, we carried him down the hall and tucked him into Silana's bed. She moved a chair next to it and gestured for me to sit down. "Sit with him. If he wakes, call for me. I'm going to start cleaning up out there." She left quietly, partially closing the door behind her. I slumped over, dropping my face into my palm. What had happened? At what point had everything gone so _wrong?_ But I knew the answer to that question was years old, decades, even. Or maybe even centuries—possibly longer. I squirmed uncomfortably as an unwanted voice entered my head, and my mind flashed back to what lay securely wrapped up in the corner of my chest back at the Sanctuary. Something touched my free hand, and I snapped back to the present.

He had woken up. He was dazed from the shock and pain—and possibly from the numerous potions Silana had administered, but he had managed to snake one hand out from under the covers and feebly take hold of mine. His eyes were dull, but a faint something was shining through regardless. The sight of those pinkish-orange scales—which would never darken to the burnished red of adulthood—surrounded by the inky blackness of my glove nearly made me start bawling. The corners of his mouth wrinkled up into what may have been a smile, which I feebly returned. Then the hand went limp, and his head drooped to the side. "Silana!" Yanking my hand free, I scrambled toward the door. She came rushing down the hall, and after a few moments of examination, she shook her head sadly.

"I'm sorry. He's gone." I expected myself to burst into sobs, but the tears didn't come.

"What will happen to him?" I heard myself whisper.

"He'll get a proper burial. Don't worry, I'll see to it myself." She gave a sad little smile. "You know, he came to for a few moments while you were asleep. His name was Asum. He was eight years old." Another unhappy smile. "And he told me an angel came and rescued him from a "dark place.'" The look she gave me made me wonder what she would think if she knew the blood I was covered in belonged to his tormentor. "Are you all right, dear?" she asked suddenly. "You don't look so well yourself." She reached out to place a hand on my forehead, but I instinctively jerked away.

"I'm fine. I should get going." And I fled. I fled from that horrible city, from its heartless ruler and his sadistic wife. From the place where innocent children endured excruciating, drawn-out, undeserved deaths. From the place where dark beings whispered terrible things to stupid young women. The chill from earlier was back—or perhaps it never really left; either way, it rattled my body, jolting my bones and clacking my teeth together. Half walking, half running, I stumbled along the road. My head raged and spun. I wasn't even sure if it was night or day anymore. And I was tired—so, so tired. Something inside of me was screaming a warning, but I didn't care anymore. The other call was just too strong. I let myself go, and fell forward into a swirling grey oblivion.

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**A/N: By the way, please let me know if the torture scene was too much, especially since it involved a child. Yes, it was unpleasant, but I felt it was necessary to give Lily the jolt she needs. She's just been drifting along for nearly a year now, and her conscience has been dormant for far too long. It's time for her to wake up and take control, and I felt this might push her into it. Sorry, but I'm just kind of nervous about it. Again, if you find it too offensive, please, please let me know.**


	13. Chapter 12: Valenwood

**A/N: I own nothing except my own imagination. And I did borrow a name in this chapter from a famous piece of literature, but may J.R.R. Tolkien rise from his grave and punch me in the face if anyone should actually think I own Lord of the Rings.**

**EpicKlauke5: Glad to know I didn't traumatize you or anything, haha. I guess it really wasn't too bad, but what can I say, Bethesda's made me paranoid regarding children lol**

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Chapter 12: Valenwood

"Wait up!" A child's shrill cry bounced through the trees, piercing the stillness of the golden summer afternoon. "Wait for me! Waaaaaaaaiiiiiittt!" He appeared over the top of hillside panting heavily, his small, chubby face a bright shade of pink, crowned by a puff of pale red hair. A girlish giggle was his only reply.

"Never!" The taunt was carried back to him on the breeze, and his breathing became more laborious as he crashed through the undergrowth, sending small woodland creatures scurrying for safety. He suddenly stopped short, as though aware that his footsteps were the only ones echoing through the brush.

"Elbereth?" He called out hesitantly, his voice tiny and perhaps a bit afraid. "Elbereth, it's not funny! Come back!" But there was no answer. The ochre sun hung dangerously low in the western sky, ominously lighting up the hillside. "Elbereth!" This time, the desperate nature of his plea was clear. "_Please! I'm scared!_" he wailed. As the first sob began to shudder through his body, the same laugh as before sounded, only this time, from up above him. His head whipped upward. There, clinging some twenty feet off the ground, was his sister. Her face and arms were covered in scratches, and her mass of hair, the color of darkening blood, was tangled in a branch, but she didn't seem to notice, judging from the merry grin on her face.

"What's that? You're scared?" She began to giggle again, but it turned to a shriek as a chunk of wood promptly went whizzing past her head. "Enilroth! Stop that!" she barked. But the boy's lower lip stuck out defiantly, and he was already clutching another stick, preparing to hurl it at her. "All right, all right," she relented. "Stay back. I'm coming down." She started her descent, but lost her footing and tumbled the last six feet or so to the ground, crashing harmlessly into the underbrush. "Owww," she moaned, as Enilroth began to snicker.

"You fell—out of the tree," he howled, doubling as the laughter shook his body. Injuries forgotten, Elbereth was already on her feet.

"You're so _mean_!" she shouted. "I'm telling Mother!"

"No! Don't you dare!" And with that, he took off in the direction they had come, Elbereth in hot pursuit. While she had the longer legs, her brother had his small size to his advantage, and neatly barreled through the underbrush she had to fight through. Regardless, they managed to reach the opening in the trees at the same time.

In the clearing sat a small farmhouse, flanked on either side by gardens, one filled with the green stalks of vegetables, the other bursting with color. A tall brunette woman was closing the gate of the latter behind her, her arms straining under the weight of a large wooden windowbox.

"Mother!" Enilroth was the first to reach her, nearly bashing his head on the corner as he threw his arms around her waist.

"Enilroth! Watch yourself!" she scolded, freeing herself from his grubby hands. But her tone was gentle, as were her arms as she set down the box and gathered up her young son. "What's the matter?" A sorrowful expression made its way across his face.

"Elbereth tried to kill me," he sniffled.

"Not true!" By this time, the girl in question had caught up, her legs sticking out far below the hem of her tattered dress as she strode across the lawn. "Did he mention the part where he tried to take my head off?"

"Elbereth, don't speak of such things. It's distasteful. And Enilroth, what did you do to your sister?"

"Nothing!" he cried.

"Lies!" Elbereth jabbed a finger into his face. "You threw sticks at me!"

"Enough." Their mother's voice clearly indicated she had had enough. "I can't deal with him when you behave in that manner." Elbereth obeyed, retreating inside the house with a slight roll of her eyes. A few minutes later, her mother followed.

"He'll be weeding the garden until dinner," she said, sharing a slight smile with her daughter. The boy's antics were often frustrating, but always amusing. "Speaking of which, will you set the table?" Sweeping to her kitchen area, she took out a head of lettuce and began chopping it into small bits.

Orphaned at a young age, Hasathil had been raised by a Nine-fearing Imperial family. The Green Pact meant nothing to her—much to the chagrin of her very traditional husband. Though still relatively carefree, Elbereth was not oblivious to her parents' differences. As she removed the dishes from their shelf, she quietly assumed—correctly so—that her father would not be joining them for dinner that night.

After feasting on a variety of forbidden delicacies, the family gathered beside the fireplace. While Enilroth sat off to the side, humming to himself as he scribbled on a piece of parchment, Elbereth sprawled out on the hearth with a book, ignoring her mother's disapproving gaze at her bare legs. She had shot up several inches the past spring, bursting out of the seams of her clothing. Before long, she would be at eye-level with her mother.

"I got a letter from my sister today," Hasathil announced suddenly. Elbereth let out a snort.

"Aunt Nevaeh?" She wrinkled her nose. "Who cares? She's completely batty!" Hasathil set aside her knitting long enough to give her daughter a stern glare.

"She's my sister," she said patiently. "She's done a lot."

"Done a lot of trouble, you mean." At the mumbled reply, Hasathil rose from her chair and crouched beside her.

"Elbereth, there's no need to be so cruel. You know what our childhood was like." She glanced over at Enilroth, but he was paying no attention. "Do you realize what an adjustment she had to make?"

"So did you!" Elbereth shot back. "And you're completely normal."

"I was a baby. She was eight. And despite their good intentions, our parents did not make it easy for her. Imagine how you would feel if you were in her position," she gently chided. "And besides, that's where you and your brother get your pretty hair from," she added, tucking a strand behind her daughter's ear.

"I'm not pretty!" Enilroth cried out. "I'm a boy!" Bother mother and daughter shared a laugh that statement as he scrambled up.

"Look, Mother! I drew a dragon! That's a Khajiit he's eating!"

"Enilroth! That's horrible! Maybe your father thinks that's funny, but…" As she rambled on, the door creaked open.

"What's all this about?"

"Father!" Both children scrambled to greet the short, stocky man with thinning dark hair. He wore a broad smile, but his eyes were sharp. As he turned to shut the door, the rabbits hanging from his shoulder swayed, scattering blood droplets on the floor. Hasathil shrieked.

"Nedhel! How many times have I told you? Don't bring those in here! Look at the mess you've made!" Instantly, the man's smile disappeared.

"And I told you, Hasathil," he snarled. "Leave. It. Be." The air in the room practically stiffened as the tension expanded. Nedhel and Hasathil stood frozen, staring each other down. Enilroth's eyes grew wide as Nedhel's grip on his shoulder tightened, digging deep into his collarbone.

Then everything exploded. Husband and wife exploded into a frenzy of shouting, the rabbits hit the floor, causing a small eruption of blood to spatter the wall, a dish shattered, and Elbereth leaped forward to take hold of her brother's hand just as Nedhel released him. "Come on." Neither of their parents noticed as they slipped out the door, letting it slam shut behind them as they fled into the darkness.

Outside, the summer night was peaceful, betraying no hint of the turmoil inside. The children's bare feet slapped against the dewy grass as they sprinted across the clearing, and were swallowed up by the forest. Masser and Secunda were both relatively full, but a thick cloud cover prevented them from illuminating the thickness of the trees. Enilroth clung tightly to Elbereth as she grimly pulled him forward into the gloom. Several times, he nearly stumbled over rocks and protruding roots, but his sister's grip was firm, and she kept him from falling. Finally, she stopped at the edge of a small creek, its trickling flow only interrupted by the crickets and the hoot of an occasional owl. Sinking down onto the mossy bank, Elbereth patted the ground beside her. "Here." Her voice was softer, more child-like than usual. "We'll just sit here for a while." Shivering, Enilroth crouched beside her.

"Elbereth?" His voice was little more than a whisper.

"Yes?"

"Do Mother and Father hate each other?" For a moment, the girl hesitated, but when she spoke, her voice was firm.

"No," she answered clearly. "They love each other. And they love us. They just fight because…." She trailed off as she racked her brain for an answer to a question her young mind could hardly process. "Well…because they're adults. And adults just…do strange things." Her voice was small once more. "Don't worry. They'll make up. Eventually." The last bit was little more than a whisper. Neither child spoke anything more for a while. And when they did, it was small cries of surprise that escaped them as they were shaken awake.

"Children." Nedhel gently jostled their sleeping forms, starting them awake. "Come on. Let's go back to the house. Your mother is worried sick." He lifted Enilroth into his arms and carried him, as Elbereth trailed sleepily on behind. "How stupid could you be?" he grumbled, mostly to himself as they plodded out of the woods. "Running off like that—so irresponsible. Elbereth, you know better. I'm disappointed."

"But it was because you were fighting! It was your fault!" Nedhel slightly gritted his teeth together as the girl's voice approached a whine.

"Well, you'll have to take that up with your mother." His tone had a dangerous edge, and his daughter immediately fell silent.

As they entered the front door, Hasathil darted forward. "Oh, my babies! Thank the Nine!" She tearfully gathered her children up in her arms. "I was so worried! What were you thinking?"

"We hate it when you fight," Enilroth announced. "We're sick of it."

"Oh, baby." Hasathil stood up, wrapping her arms around her husband. "Mothers and fathers argue sometimes. It's normal. But that doesn't mean we don't love each other. We're a family, and we always will be."

"Exactly," Nedhel added, kissing his wife's cheek.

"Now." Hasathil spoke briskly as she pulled away. "How about some breakfast? Father can eat with us this morning." She stepped towards the stove, where strips of meat were cheerily crackling in a pan. "It's a beautiful day, isn't it? Elbereth, why don't you go see your friend today? That nice girl, the one whose family owns all those horses?"

"Liethl. Maybe I will. I haven't seen her in a while." It was true. While most children went to school in the nearby town, Hasathil insisted on teaching her children at home. True to her upbringing, she was raising her children to fear the Nine, and felt that influences of traditional Bosmeri religion, or "paganism," as she termed it, were too strong in government sanctioned education.

And so the family sat down to breakfast, and when they had finished eating fried rabbit, Elbereth made the three-mile trek along the worn footpath to Liethl's family's farm. She and the tall blonde spent the day with the horses, filling their mangers, brushing their coats to sleek perfection, and, once the work was done, taking a ride down through the trees to an empty pasture. And once the day was done and she had returned home, the girl called Elbereth climbed the ladder to the loft of her family's home, and entered the sectioned-off corner that served as her room, a fairly spacious area with enough room for a bed and a dresser. And she crawled into her bed and leaned against the chimney as moonlight streamed in through the window, listening to her brother talk in his sleep on the other side of the divider. All was well, and Elbereth was happy.

But she had seen something that day, something that would rattle her to her core if she were to actually consider it. Despite the summer warmth there was a chill in the air, flowing between her parents, and radiating towards her and her brother. For the first time in her life, young Elbereth sensed an ugliness she had never felt before. But dreams overtook, and she soon forgot it. For a while longer, at least, the girl's heart would remain peaceful.


	14. Chapter 13: Night of Terror

**A/N: Nope, I haven't gained ownership of anything since last time**

**Witchy Bee: They are adorable, aren't they? Don't worry, we haven't seen the last of Ichabod...yet**

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Chapter 13: Night of Terror

Summer faded to winter and back again, and the cycle began anew. By the new year, the girl known as Elbereth had changed as much as the landscape. She had grown even with her mother, but the well-worn clothing of her childhood was gone. Instead, she had grown to favor long skirts and simple lines, in somber colors and hardy fabrics. She kept her mahogany mane as severely bound as her posture, and the dancing light had faded from her eyes, leaving them dark and serious. And just as her mother had hoped and prayed, she was growing to be a devout follower of the Nine.

More and more of her time had been spent in prayer that autumn, and by winter, she announced her intentions to become a priestess of Kynareth, much to Hasathil's delight. Among her prayers, studies, and sleep, the monotony of her days was only broken at dawn and dusk. It was then that she would slip out of the house to check the traps.

The previous year, Nedhel had taught her to hunt. The only game she was able to bring home consisted mainly of squirrels and rabbits, seeing as trapping was her only method. Nedhel had promised to teach her how to handle a bow, but he had been considerably absent for quite some time. He had taken to drinking with friends in town, and he and Hasathil rarely spoke anymore. In the times he was gone, Hasathil had come to rely heavily on her daughter, and slowly, Nedhel's share of the burden was shifting onto Elbereth's shoulders. The darkness she had witnessed on that long-ago summer morning had grown restless; in fact, it was quite tangible.

One evening late in Sun's Dawn, Elbereth sat at the table, helping Enilroth read a book while Hasathil fried the pair of squirrels her daughter had brought in that day. Both mother and daughter were grimly quiet, their heads filled with thoughts of their insufficient food supply and Nedhel's two-week absence, his longest yet. There was a small shuffle at the door, and then it burst open, revealing Nedhel. Hasathil did not acknowledge him, as usual, and Enilroth immediately leapt up and ran to him, also as usual. At first, Elbereth paid no attention; she had grown used to this little display over the past several months. But this time, something was off.

Nedhel stood frozen in the doorway, his hands clamped around Enilroth's arms, hold him stiffly at a distance. His eyes were latched at a spot on the far wall, seemingly oblivious to everything around him. "Father?" Enilroth asked, looking helplessly upwards. He squirmed a bit, but there was no escaping the iron grip.

Softly, Elbereth rose from her chair and crossed the room, ignoring the blast of chilly air seeping through the open door. "Father?" She mimicked Enilroth, this time reaching out to gently touch his arm. He jerked away from her touch as though he had been burned, snapping his head around to stare at her. He had to look up at her now, but she felt herself shrinking under his gaze. His eyes bored into her own, harsher and colder than she had ever seen them. The world seemed to slip away a little, and she felt paralyzed, a feeling eerily similar to terror welling up in her.

And then, it was over, just like that. He released Enilroth and strode to the fireplace, sitting down and taking off his boots. Enilroth stood, mouth gaping open, looking utterly confused. Before he could say anything, Elbereth swept him back to the kitchen. The exchange had not gone unnoticed by Hasathil, who stood, hands perched on hips, a questioning frown on her face. Elbereth could only shrug. Nedhel did not join them at the table for dinner, but throughout the entire meal, each of them continued to cast worried glances at his unmoving back.

Sometime in the night, Elbereth sat up in bed, with a distinctive worry that they had not locked the door before retiring. Creeping down the ladder, she made her way toward the door, squinting through the faint glow of the low flames, the only source of light. "Elbereth."

She let out a sharp gasp. There was Nedhel, still seated in the exact same spot he had been all evening. Only now, his sharp eyes were locked on her. "Come here, girl. Sit down." She obeyed, moving woodenly towards the other chair. She nervously sat across from him, hands folded in her lap while he continued with his chilling stare.

"How old are you now, again?" he finally asked.

"Thirteen." The word made its way out as no more than a whisper.

"Hmmp," he snorted. "Thirteen. When I was your age, I worked for a living. Felling trees for the damn Imperial bastards." He snorted again. "And I said to myself, 'Never again.' And do you know what? I meant it. I meant it then, and I mean it now." His tone was humorous, but his eyes were still hard.

"What do you mean?" Elbereth asked quietly, feeling slow and stupid. There was a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach. To her surprise, Nedhel laughed.

"You'll understand someday. But for now, you do as I say." His tone had grown menacing. "Are we clear?" She nodded helplessly. "Then go." His gaze shifted back to the fire, and she fled up the ladder. But his strange words and actions continued to run through her mind, and sleep did not claim her until the early hours of the morning.

The following night, she was torn from her sleep by a blood-curdling shriek. She nearly flew down the ladder, only to stop short at the sight that met her.

Nedhel was convulsing on the floor in a puddle of blood, while Hasathil stood by gaping in horror. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Enilroth cowering in the corner, but her attention was immediately directed elsewhere, as Nedhel rolled over and proceeded to vomit up even more blood. There was also blood leaking from his eyes, which were rolled as far back into his head. As he rolled onto his hands and knees, a hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of Hasathil's skirt, yanking hard. With a shriek, Hasathil went down. A sudden burst of adrenaline shot through Elbereth, and she leapt forward, kick her father squarely in the side. The force knocked him over, and his hold on Hasathil loosened, allowing her to scramble back. His body jerked several more times, and then, without warning, he was on his feet. For a moment, he lurched towards her, and she stood petrified, despite Hasathil's urgent tugging on her arm. Then he turned and ran out into the night. Hasathil jumped for the door, slamming it shut and firmly bolting it.

"Help me. We need to move the table." Together, they wrestled it across the room, wedging it against the door. "Are the windows all locked? Check the shutters. Hurry! Now!" Hasathil gave the orders relentlessly, but once every last possible entrance had been barricaded, her chin wobbled, and she burst into sobs, sinking to the floor. Elbereth leaped to comfort her.

"There, there," she soothed, cradling her mother to her chest. Her mind was running wild, and her heart was racing even faster, but her voice remained still. "What happened? What _was_ that?"

"He-he—" Hasathil stammered, "he just showed up o-out of _nowhere_." Her voice broke on the last word. "Enilroth w-w-wasn't feeling well, and I came down to get him some milk, a-and he came in muttering and making the strangest sounds and his eyes were all funny and then he started cursing at me and then he just stopped and he was moaning and he fell and the _blood_! The _blood_! She broke out crying again, and Elbereth absent-mindedly patted her on the back, her mind reeling from what she had just been told.

"Did he do this to you?" she asked, gently probing the growing swelling on the side of her mother's face. Hasathil's only response was a nod. The girl's heart sank. "Don't worry," she whispered, reaching out to include her brother, who had crept closer, in the embrace. "We're going to be okay. I promise."

They huddled together on the floor for hours, not moving until long after the fire had burned out. Elbereth moved back all the furniture. Hasathil scrubbed the blood from the floor. And Enilroth, young as he was, scarcely moved from his vigil by the window. For days, they waited in the house, just barely keeping the fire going and eating nothing but dried vegetables, as Hasathil forbade them to stray from the house, making getting firewood and checking the traps impossible. On the afternoon of the third day, Enilroth let out a yell.

"He's coming! He's coming!"

"Quick!" Hasathil sprang into action. "Get upstairs! Both of you!" Enilroth obeyed, but Elbereth stood firm.

"No! I'm not leaving you with him!" she insisted. Hasathil chewed her lip nervously, but her daughter could see her relenting.

"Fine. Just—leave it to me, okay?" At her daughter's nod, she took a shaky breath, and resumed chopping dried turnips.

Nedhel burst through the door and strode directly to Hasathil. His hand clamped down on her wrist and he wrenched the knife from her grip and wedged it into the wall. Both the woman and her daughter wore identical expressions of fear. He snatched the chopping board and carried it outside, then dumped the contents onto the frozen ground. Then he reentered the house, and sharply pushed Hasathil against the wall.

"If I ever find anything green being consumed in this house again, you will pay very dearly," he flatly intoned. He turned on his heel and strode out, but paused in the doorway. "And put that fire out!" he barked. "I will not have such wastefulness!" He sneered at Elbereth. "I'm talking to _you_, sweetheart." And with that final comment, he was gone.

Both Hasathil and Elbereth drifted toward the window, watching him disappear into the forest. When he was gone from sight, Elbereth spoke. "Did you see his _eyes_?" Hasathil could only nod in affirmation. They had gone pitch black, even the whites and irises.

* * *

By Sun's Height, the weariness of the past several months was wearing on them. The darkness now ruled over the house, blanketing them in shadow. Nedhel's appearances remained sporadic, and consisted mainly of that eerie, deadly calm, sometimes mixed with bouts of rage. After all the time that had passed, his eyes still remained that solid, inky black. They were all sporting bruises, and they never left the house except to hunt.

At Nedhel's insistence, they had eaten nothing but raw meat for months. At first, it had been sickening—and in a way it still was—but they had grown used to it. It was either that, or starve. And so Elbereth continued her trapping routine, traipsing through the woods armed with a rusty iron dagger that Hasathil insisted she carry. On her rounds, she would clutch the worn hilt as though her life depended on it, certain that any moment Nedhel would pop out of the trees. Dreams of becoming a priestess were gone; all she cared about anymore was surviving—and making sure her family did, too.

One evening, as they sat at the table, sullenly choking down their gory meal, Hasathil looked up abruptly and sniffed. "What's that smell?" she asked. Wiping blood from her chin, she rose from her chair and walked out into the clearing. "What_ is_ that?" she repeated. Elbereth and Enilroth glanced at each other, then followed suit.

"I don't smell anything," Enilroth objected.

"_I_ do," Elbereth stated darkly. She and Hasathil caught each other's gaze. "Is that…smoke?"

"Look!" Enilroth suddenly screeched. His mother and his sister did so, gaping in horror at the enormous cloud of smoke billowing over the trees.

"The village! It's burning!" Hasathil cried. "Oh, Talos save us! Quickly, get water! Or do we start our own fire? I don't know!" she wailed.

"Mother, calm down!" Elbereth snapped. "It's not going to spread that far!"

"I wouldn't be so sure about that." All three gasped in horror at the figure that approached from the shadows. "Inside. All of you." Despite his terrible tone, Nedhel was smiling. They slowly retreated to the house, simultaneously wincing as he slammed the door behind them. In the gloom, his eyes were even more ominous than usual. They flitted around the room, then came to rest on Elbereth. "I'm sorry," he said coolly.

"F-father?"

"You're going to need to come with me." He reached for her, but Hasathil boldly stepped in the way.

"You're not going to touch her." Her voice was quavering, but she stood firm.

"Out of the way, bitch," he snarled. In one swift movement, he threw his wife to the floor. Howling indignantly, Elbereth launched herself at him, but his club was off of his belt. A blinding pain blasted her in the side of the head, and she tumbled to the ground. Hasathil's cry was the last thing she was aware of.

When she came to, she was being half-dragged, half carried through the forest. At her whimper, Nedhel looked down at her sharply. "Good, you're awake. Walk," he commanded, setting her on her feet.

"I-I don't understand. What are you doing? Please!" She didn't know what she was begging for exactly, but somehow, deep down she knew it was her life.

"Sweet, little Elbereth," Nedhel sighed. "I am sorry, you know. I didn't want it to be this way. But it has to be. Blame your mother, if you like. She's the one who corrupted you."

"Wh-what?" she croaked.

"The blood of infidels, nothing is more pleasing to him. And you, you imperialized little bitch. Just like your mother, only worse. Because_ I_ fathered you," he growled. Elbereth's heart began to race.

"Father!" she screamed. He was pulling her along faster now. Brambles were scratching her arms, and she was tripping over her own feet. She let out a gasp of pain as her ankle rolled. Despite herself, hot tears were welling up in her eyes.

"You're a curse, that's what you are! A curse!" His voice had risen to a ragged shout. "It's the only way! He'll know that I'm loyal! And once I've proven myself, all will know his power! ALL HAIL UMARIL!" he bellowed. He thrust her down onto the ground, where her tears mixed with the already damp soil.

"Father!" she sobbed. "Please, please don't!" But he only spoke a strange incantation, and roots sprang up from the ground, binding her wrists and ankles. Her breath came in faster pants as he produced an evil-looking dagger.

"In the name of Umaril," he called out, "I sacrifice this girl, my daughter Elbereth. May her blood nourish you, my lord." And Elbereth could only brace herself for the imminent killing blow.

But it never came. There was a hollow _thunk_, and Nedhel dropped. There stood Hasathil, brandishing a broken tree branch.

"Elbereth, hold still!" From seemingly out of nowhere, Enilroth popped up, madly sawing at the root around her hands, Hasathil went to work on the ones at her feet. Once free, she thrashed to her feet.

"What…how did you…"

"No time," Hasathil said briskly. "We need to go. _Now_." The three of them rushed through the trees, Enilroth and Hasathil supporting Elbereth, whose ankle was already swelling. They emerged from the woods to a harsh, oily glow. Elbereth gasped.

"No!" she cried, trying to dart forward. But a figure blocked her way.

"Elbereth, stay back," the woman commanded. Her fiery hair matched the flames licking along the timbers of the house. Hasathil threw herself into the woman's arms.

"Nevaeh, we got there just in time. He was about to kill her."

"Oh, calm yourself," Nevaeh chided. "What are you crying about? She's safe! You don't need to worry anymore."

"Excuse me!" Elbereth demanded. "What is going on? What are you doing here? Our house!" She gestured wildly towards the flames that were rapidly eating up the only home she had ever known. Nevaeh smiled sympathetically.

"Sweetie, I'm sorry. Uncle Meldor and I set it. But your father's friends will think you're dead now." She grimaced. "And that's what we need them to think."

"They're not friends, Nevaeh," Hasathil spoke up. She turned to her daughter. "It's a cult. That's what's been wrong with him. They've pledged themselves to this Umaril, whoever that is. And apparently, they're on their way here to kill us." She gave a bitter laugh. "We're an "abomination". He said so before he trapped us in the cellar. Lucky your aunt and uncle arrived right on his heels."

"Hasathil, there's no time for this," Nevaeh interrupted. "You need to go. Take your children and get away from here. Far away." She produced several bundles. "Here. Food and blankets just like you asked. And a map!

"Head east, and don't stop until you get to Cyrodiil," her slim companion chimed in. "They won't dare enter the heart of the Empire."

"I can't do this," Hasathil whispered. "Nevaeh, I really can't."

"Yes, you can. Because you have no choice," her sister announced. "Do you realize how close you just came to losing your daughter tonight? For the love of Talos, Hasathil, do what you have to, just go! Go!"

Elbereth, who had not taken her eyes from the burning house, hesitated, taking a tentative step towards the collapsing structure. But Nevaeh was stuffing one of the bundles into her arms.

"Elbereth, your mother needs you. Don't fail her now." Her gaze was finally torn from the fire. Wordlessly nodding, she took hold of her mother's arm. The three of them fled into the forest without any other acknowledgement. Elbereth glanced back only once, then grimly turned to face the darkness.

* * *

The Valenwood Uprising of 3E429 would soon be overshadowed by other events, but for a while, it was the talk of the Empire. People would politely bow their heads when their neighbors spoke of the forty-seven lives that had been lost in the fighting, and of the eight that were sacrificed to some long-departed sorcerer-king. But little did they know, there had nearly been eleven.


	15. Chapter 14: Cyrodiil

**A/N: I. Own. Nothing.**

**XxNinjaGoddessxX: Thank you! I'm glad you like it :)**

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Chapter 14: Cyrodiil

"That does it." Elbereth threw down her pack, ignoring it as it rolled several feet away. "I'm not going another step until you give me that map!" She lunged forward, but Enilroth skittered away, holding it enticingly out of her grasp.

"No," he protested. "Don't touch it." She managed to snatch it, but he refused to loosen his grip. There was a sharp ripping sound, and a split appeared up the middle.

"You _moron_!" she shrieked. "Look what you've done!" Bringing her hand back, she struck him across the face. He responded by shoving her to the ground, and madly kicking at her fallen frame. But she was up in seconds, and the two began rapidly exchanging blows.

"Enough!" Hasathil planted herself between her sparring children. Elbereth backed down immediately, but Enilroth tried to land one final punch. However, he ended up striking Hasathil in the kidney. She gasped, her face going grey as she sank to the ground.

"You—hit—Mother," Elbereth growled between gritted teeth. "You're going to pay, you little twerp!" She sprung at him, but Hasathil grabbed her skirt, yanking her back.

"I said enough!" she shrilled. "Maybe you don't realize it, but we are _lost_! We might _die_ out here, but you two just _won't stop fighting_!" She immediately burst into tears. With a sigh, Elbereth sat down beside her. "It's no use," she blubbered. "I did this. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I couldn't…I didn't…should have…done more for him…" She continued to sputter. "Why are the Nine doing this?" she asked into her daughter's shoulder. "Why are they punishing us so?"

"I don't know." Elbereth closed her eyes wearily. She didn't want to think about the Nine. "But Mother, we are _not _going to die. We might if we sit here, but that's not going to happen." She stood, pulling the older woman up with her. "Come on. Let's get out bearings." She turned to Enilroth, who was sullenly watching the exchange. However, there was an edge of fear in his face. Hasathil's outburst had obviously shaken him.

"Enilroth?" she asked patiently. "May I please see the map?" He shook his head, and planted his heels in the sand, gripping the parchment even tighter."

"Just give it to her, Enilroth," Hasathil ordered, wiping the last of the tears from her eyes. She was still clearly upset, but the edge on her tone was enough to jar the boy into obedience.

"Thank you!" Elbereth couldn't help but smirk a little in triumph as she snatched it back. Ignoring Enilroth's glare, she examined the tear. "It's not too bad," she assessed. "We're just _lucky_ that it wasn't a part that was _important_." Enilroth angrily huffed under his breath, but remained where he was. "Anyway…" her voice trailed off as she studied it more closely, occasionally glancing back and forth at the surroundings, and up at the sky. Finally, she let out a groan.

"I think we're heading west," she announced

"What?" Hasathil grabbed at the map. "How did that happen?" She mimicked Elbereth's observations, then let it flutter to the ground.

"We're done for." Her face crumpled, and Elbereth realized she was about to start crying again.

"Here." She picked up her pack, quietly handing the map to Enilroth. Let him feel important. At least it would keep him quiet. "Let's go. We're only finished if we don't keep moving."

It had been at least five days since they had fled home, but it could have been more. Elbereth wasn't really bothering to keep track. She was too busy running, keeping her family calm, and trying to navigate. Meldor had advised that heading to Cyrodiil was their best move, informing them that these riots were taking place all over the province, but he seemed to forget that none of them had ever left Valenwood. Although raised in the southern regions, heading north had been the only traveling Hasathil had ever done, whereas Elbereth and Enilroth had never even ventured from the town where they were born. And so for the past several days, they had found themselves wandering through a seemingly endless expanse of desert, the only variation the shade of the sand. They had encountered small, grimy grey-green bodies of water, but those were becoming less and less frequent.

The desert was stiflingly hot by day, the sun beating down mercilessly and burning their exposed skin until it turned a crisp red. But during the night, once the sun had faded in the direction of home, the bone-chilling cold set in. They would huddle together in silence until each had dropped into a restless sleep, without even the smallest of fires. Although they had been lucky so far, they were still surrounded by enemies. Wild, foreign beasts roamed the wilderness, and there were tales of tribal Khajiit known to kill Bosmer on sight. And of course, there were their pursuers from the west to consider. Although the madmen would have no way of knowing for certain which direction they had gone, it had to be obvious. North, south, and west would lead further into Valenwood, and therefore to other chapters of the cult.

So they pressed on. Elbereth was vaguely aware of the sky growing darker, but did not attribute it to anything other than dusk until she heard a faint, distant rumbling. She looked up to the sky to see thick, dark clouds boiling overhead. At the same moment, a fat raindrop splashed onto her arm. It was followed by another, and another, until the three of them were in the middle of a complete downpour. It was then that Elbereth noticed the landscape.

It was different; the sand and rocks had faded away to vegetation. It was sparse and dry, but it was there nonetheless. The change had happened so gradually she had not noticed it. But of course, she thought to herself, she had been too disoriented by the rain. Suddenly its occurrence made a lot more sense—at least more than it did in the middle of the desert.

The sky grew darker, and the thunder grew nearer. The rain was relentless, lashed along by the wind. A tree line came in sight, undergrowth popped up, and before they knew it, they were once again surrounded by forest. It was not the type of forest Elbereth was accustomed to, though; instead of lush and full, this was thick and moist. A particularly bright flash of lightning startled Elbereth, and when she glanced in its direction, another light caught her eye.

"Mother," she called. Hasathil glanced back, her gaze flickering in the direction her daughter was pointing. "Do you see that?"

A cluster of lights sat on the hillside, never moving and never blinking. "A town?" Elbereth asked.

"Maybe." Hasathil wore a frown of concentration, and Elbereth knew she was going over the options in her head, weighing the risks against the benefits. There was no telling who they might find there; for all they knew, their pursuers could be waiting for them to walk into their hands. But again, the storm was showing no sign of relenting, and it was already nightfall. It would be senseless to go tearing through unfamiliar territory in the dark. Hasathil took a tentative step forward, then began to stride more boldly in the direction of the town, Enilroth following tiredly.

"Are we sure about this?" Elbereth whispered.

"We'll find out," Hasathil hissed back. But Elbereth couldn't help but notice that her voice shook. As they walked on, the lights grew steadily brighter, until a village came into view. It wasn't much, just a neat arrangement of small buildings covered with moss and creeping vines. As they approached, a voice called out.

"Who goes there?" They stopped short.

"We are but travelers," Hasathil called back cautiously. Nearby, a torch flared to life, and a hooded figure approached. Its light revealed a Khajiit male, his amber eyes suspicious, but not threatening. His gaze travelled over each of them, stopping on Enilroth. Then he smiled, visibly relaxing.

"Welcome to Border Watch, strangers," he greeted. "You are welcome here. I am Ri'Bassa, Shaman of our people."

"Thank you for your hospitality," Hasathil replied. "Could I ask how far we are from Cyrodiil?"

To their surprise, he guffawed loudly. "Strangers, you must be lost!" he exclaimed. There was a note of incredulity on his tone. "You are in Cyrodiil! You crossed the border a couple miles back. Did you not know this?"

Luckily, their silence seemed to serve as an effective response, for they were dumbstruck. In spite of everything, they were finally safe. They had made it at long last. Ri'bassa looked at them curiously, then shrugged. "Well, welcome to Cyrodiil, then. And to Border's Watch. The inn is just up the hill to your left." And he disappeared into a small house.

Inside the inn, it was mercifully warm and dry—perhaps a little_ too_ warm. The air felt thick and stale, but perhaps it was just the shock of being indoors again. While Hasathil spoke to the woman behind the counter, Enilroth uncharacteristically clinging to her skirts, Elbereth stood a little ways apart, staring at the occupants of the main room.

They were all Khajiit; that was to be expected, considering the proximity to Elsweyr, but it was a little unnerving. Pictures were one thing, seeing them in person was another. Given the tension between Elsweyr and Valenwood, one grew up hearing how Khajiit were savages, but the population of this town seemed absolutely ordinary. They sat there placidly despite the raging storm, sipping from mugs and chatting amongst themselves. But then, another figure caught her eye.

In the corner, away from the socialization and noise, sat a young human male. Dressed in a dark, close-fitting armor, he made a sharp contrast against the plain peasants surrounding him. His dark eyes casually scanned the room, taking in every detail, then suddenly locked onto Elbereth. He smiled from beneath his hood, but she involuntarily shuddered, feeling slightly creeped out. She turned back to her family, just in time to hear the hostess announce that they would be spending the night in room number one.

Once inside the room, Hasathil firmly bolted the door shut. As though that were not enough, she dragged over a nearby chair, wedging it firmly under the door. Although she made a feeble attempt to protest, she seemed only far too happy to agree to take the bed, along with Enilroth. Both mother and son were asleep within minutes. Elbereth tried to settle into her makeshift bed on the floor, but found herself oddly on edge. Maybe it was the close heat of the room, or maybe it was the jagged outline of the makeshift barricade that appeared with each flash of lightning. Finally, she gave up, tossing the blankets aside and gingerly sliding the chair away from the door.

The inn was dark and silent, except for a light, feline snoring coming from behind the counter, as she made her way towards the door. Quickly glancing back over her shoulder towards the door to her family's room, she slipped outside. It was still pouring, but the overhang provided shelter from both the downfall and the pounding wind. At least she could breathe out here.

"So you're from Valenwood." She jumped out of her skin, whirling around to face the source of the voice. The young Imperial from earlier was standing in the shadows, a pipe clutched between his teeth. At her glare, he only grinned around it.

"What makes you think that?" she demanded. Or rather, tried to demand, but her voice shook, stripping away any intimidation.

"Your accent," he replied calmly, blowing away a puff of smoke, ignoring as she coughed dramatically.

"I don't have an accent," she retorted, but even as she spoke the words, she found herself comparing his clipped pronunciation to her own drawl. She frowned a little, much seemed to amuse him.

"So," he continued, "why leave?" A short pause filled the air. "Perhaps you are…running from something?" Her head moved of its own accord despite herself, and she found herself fighting back tears. But his tone was surprisingly gentle. "I understand. I, myself, have been on the run for most of my life." There was a hint of something that sounded strangely like regret in his voice, but for the first time, it crossed her mind that he could be a murderer or a bandit or a rapist. She stiffened slightly as his footsteps padded across the porch toward her, but he only patted her on the shoulder. "Don't worry," he said. "You'll be able to stop someday. Eventually, everyone finds their way." His footsteps retreated, and the door clicked gently shut. After a few moments, she followed. She made sure to move the chair back to where Hasathil put before falling into her tangle of blankets.

What seemed like seconds later, a hand on her shoulder jostled her awake. "Breakfast." Hasathil stuck a piece of toast in her hand. "Come on, get up," she urged, stripping the blanket off her daughter's curled-up form. "If all goes according to plan, this will be our last day on the road." That was enough to get the girl to her feet.

Outside, the orange-tinted eastern horizon gradually brightened, until the heavy coating of dew began to burn off. After half an hour of the jungle-like forest, they suddenly found themselves on an open stone road. It was a shock to run across other travelers; at the first sighting, Elbereth had to fight the urge to flee back into the forest. The hours wore on. Enilroth complained about his damp feet. Hasathil's glares in his direction grew increasingly chilly. And then, when the last rays of sun shone from the west, a city came into view.

"There it is," Hasathil said wearily. "Bravil. Welcome to your new home." She made a thinly-veiled attempt to sound cheerful, but it fell flat just the same. But when they actually made it inside the gates, she looked positively horror-struck. Enilroth and Elbereth mirrored her expression, gawking at their new surroundings.

The city reeked of filth and decay. Half-clothed, ragged children darted back and forth. Drunken laughter echoed down every alleyway. And a bedraggled man staggered toward them mumbling, a crazed expression in his red-rimmed eyes. Elbereth felt Hasathil shrink back against her, but a guard appeared and tackled him to the ground. Once the man was restrained, he glanced over at them.

"Skooma," he said by way of explanation. "Can I help you folks?" Hasathil suddenly stepped forward, pushing her children back. After a few moments of discussion, she returned.

"There's another inn on the other side of the city," she announced. "Come. Let's go." Once they were safely inside a grimy little room, she sank down in a chair with a deep sigh. Her features were peaceful, for the first time in months. Her green eyes slipped open and made contact with Elbereth's, then glanced to the other side of the room, where Enilroth was already fast asleep.

"I know it's horrible," she admitted. "That hostess said it was bad, but I had no idea…" She trailed off, shrugging helplessly. "But the further north we get, the less tolerant people will be of outsiders. Like us." She grimaced. "And I didn't want to go south, because to be honest, I just couldn't take that humidity," she continued with a half-hearted smile. Elbereth tried to share the little joke, but it was too much effort. She brought her knees up to her chin, wrapping her arms around them. "Here, at least, it's a city. _They_ will avoid a place like this at all costs, and regardless, we have an entire town guard to protect us. I know it's dirty and seedy and definitely _not_ ideal, but may the Nine help me, Elby, I'm trying. I really am trying." Her face dropped into her hands, and her shoulders started to shake. Elbereth slipped off the bed and crossed the room to her side, wrapping her arms around her sobbing mother.

After some time, the woman went still. When she looked up, her red, puffy eyes were full of steel. "Listen," she said hoarsely, "tomorrow I'm going to go out. I want you to stay here and watch your brother. Don't open the door, don't leave this room. Understand?" At her daughter's nod, she visibly relaxed. "Good. I knew I could count on you." Despite the aura of fear that had yet to melt away, Hasathil's words left Elbereth feeling warm.

The day slipped by slowly, much too slowly for Elbereth's taste. She sat by the window, peering at the dirty street below. Was this home now? It didn't feel like it. But no matter where her mind wandered, she refused to let it stray to the clearing with the little whitewashed, thatched-roofed farmhouse. She simply would not allow it.

Enilroth, however, was having an even worse time of it. Bored and restless, he amused himself by leaping on top of furniture, loudly singing off-key, and eating all that remained of their meager food supply. By the time the door opened, late in the evening, both children were cranky, with Elbereth about ready to burst into tears. But Hasathil wore an odd triumphant grin as she came through the door, and she couldn't help but forget about her obnoxious little brother.

"We're moving!" she cried.

"What?" Elbereth leaped to her feet.

"We have a house." Hasathil was smiling almost maniacally as she swept around the room, gathering up their scattered belongings. "I saw the count today, who told me about a house for sale. I explained that I couldn't pay for it straight away, but asked if we could work out a plan or something. He agreed, but he wanted an initial payment, which I, of course, can not afford. So then I went looking for a job. But there was nothing available." Her face fell a little, as though there was something else to the story she was not telling. "I was starting to get desperate, so I ended up going into the Fighters Guild."

"What?" Elbereth demanded, feeling the blood drain from her face. There was no way that her dainty, gentle mother was going to become a professional mercenary. No way at all. But Hasathil only laughed.

"No, no, that's not it! To make a long story short, I spoke with the Guildmaster, and she hired me as a clerk! I am now in charge of all their paperwork." She grinned even more broadly. "So then I convinced her to go back to count with me. By then it was late, and he wasn't exactly happy to see me again." She frowned a little then went on. "But Tadrose—that's the Guildmaster—vouched for me, and so we have a house! Provided that I pay the count each month, of course. Or else we all get thrown in prison!" For some reason, that seemed to strike her as funny, for she began to giggle madly. "Come on, you two! Let's go see our house!"

The house was on the other side of town, right across from the Fighters Guild, much to Hasathil's pleasure. They climbed the rickety, poorly-lit stairs, emerging on a small balcony with only a rope to keep them from falling over the edge. Hasathil fumbled with the key, and the door creaked inward. She lit a candle, and led her brood into their new abode. "Well," she said cautiously, "it's not much. But it will do." It was small and musty-smelling, but Hasathil seemed pleased as she moved through the house. "I'll take the bedroom," she declared. "Sorry, but I'm the mother." She chuckled a little. "But we could set up rooms for you two over here!" she called excitedly. "If we bought some dividers, we could make it work." She continued to make her way around the room, planning how to set everything up, but the high spirits were limited to only her.

"Elby?" Enilroth whispered. She glanced down at her brother. "I don't like this house." She sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"I know," she said quietly. "Me either." She sighed. "But we're safe. That's all that matters." If she repeated it often enough, perhaps it would seem true.


	16. Chapter 15: The Evening Star

**Still don't own it. Not now, not ever.**

**A/N: Sorry, I've had this saved on my computer for ages, but I'm finally publishing it. It was orginally longer, but I took the last part and put it in the next chapter; it sort of made the story flow better. On the bright side, that means the first part of the next chapter is already written, so I'll probably be able to get it out sooner than I thought!**

**And by the way, I hate to do this, but I would really appreciate some reviews. Just let me know what you think: if it's good or bad, if you like it or not, things you like, things you think could be improved. Sorry to beg, but I need feedback!**

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Chapter 15: The Evening Star

Elbereth realized she was smiling as she wrote the final sentence of her essay. Blowing on the ink to dry it, she glanced over at the liquid cooling in the bottom of her retort. Almost done. Setting the parchment aside, she carefully grasped the sides of the frame, taking care not to burn her fingers on the glass, and slowly inched towards the door. She may as well sit outside while she waited for it to cool. The day was cool and overcast, and the rank stench that normally permeated the entire city was hardly noticeable. Setting the retort aside, she sat down on the edge of the landing, letting her feet dangle over the edge as she faced the canal.

Earlier that week, she and Hasathil had carefully dressed in their best clothing, and gone across town to visit the Mages Guild. There, they had been greeted by the Head, a somber Argonian named Kud-Ei. After shaking their hands, she had led them up several flights of stairs, to a small room practically bursting with books, alchemy equipment, and various other gadgets that Elbereth couldn't even recognize. They all sat around a circular table, while Kud-Ei stared at them, never blinking.

After a few awkward moments of silence, she finally spoke. "So," she said in her slow, husky voice, "you would like to study magic with us." Before Elbereth could get out a reply, she was speaking again, describing the intelligence and prowess of each mage to have ever studied there. It was stuffy in the little room, and her voice droned on and on. Just as Elbereth was certain she could no longer keep her eyelids from slipping closed, the woman finished with, "But your teachers have had nothing but praise for you. Finish your studies with them, and we would be happy to have you join us here."

A small group of children appeared at the head of the street, Enilroth among them. His companions were a broad Redguard, a rather slight Nord, a sickly-looking Breton, and lastly, a chubby Argonian girl. Enilroth was laughing about something with the Redguard and the Nord, the Breton and Argonian trailing along behind. Enilroth looked over her way and threw a quick wave as the group turned towards the canal. She smiled and returned the wave, but he had already looked away.

Interesting, how much less frustrating he was becoming as he grew older. That first year in Bravil, he had been quite the little terror. Hasathil had been distant, throwing herself into her work and returning short-tempered and exhausted. She didn't understand what she was doing, she would complain during her weekly crying fits, and she was certain that she would be asked not to return. And Elbereth had immediately been labeled an outcast at school, with her accent, strange clothing, and awkward mannerisms. Enilroth, however, had immediately made friends with the Redguard boy a street over, and within months, was perfectly happy and content in Bravil. He couldn't seem to understand why his mother and sister were so miserable all the time, and the three were constantly at each others' throats.

But somehow, miraculously, they had survived. Each month, Hasathil delivered to the count the payment for the house, and kept food on the table. Despite her status as a social pariah, Elbereth excelled through her studies. And Enilroth kept right on being Enilroth, albeit with a decreasing appetite for mischief. And now, just last week, the Fighters Guild head had told Hasathil that she was indispensible. And in a few short months, Elbereth would officially enter the Mages Guild. She couldn't be more thrilled about it. Although she had become unmistakably Cyrodiilic over the past three years, she had still never managed to bond with her peers at school. She had wanted to go somewhere else to study, to make a fresh start far away from Bravil. Anvil had been her first choice, for the beautiful weather, she told Hasathil, but secretly, its proximity to Valenwood held a far greater allure. Even if she couldn't return, even if it wasn't safe, she would still be able to go to the border and _see_. And _feel_.

A high-pitched screech tore through her musings, and her head snapped up just in time to the Breton boy plunge into the canal, as Enilroth tottered on the edge of the dock. The Redguard caught him just in time, as the Nord and the Argonian dropped to the deck, shouting to the boy in the water. The Redguard wrapped an arm around a post and stretched, reaching towards the flailing boy. A few minutes later, the dripping figure was hauled up onto the deck. Elbereth couldn't help but stifle a smile. She couldn't imagine anything more disgusting than being dunked in the Bravil canals, but it sure was funny.

The faint drizzle of steam had stopped trickling from the retort, so after carefully testing it with a finger, she picked it up and carried it inside. The bit of daedra silk had been given to her by Kud-Ei, as a sort of bribe, she assumed. For all the woman's bragging, it was a known fact that the Bravil branch of the Guild was not necessarily renowned for academia. It had a good reputation, based on association with some powerful mages, but standing alone, it was near the bottom of the list. Still, she thought as she dropped the silk into the morning glory mixture, it was better than nothing. Educated and backed by the Guild, she would have a much better chance at pursuing…whatever she planned on doing. Because honestly, she had no idea. Aside from becoming a renowned alchemist, of course. But being paid to come up with incredible new potions was extremely unlikely to happen.

Enilroth burst through the door, panting heavily. "I knocked Jacques into the canal," he snickered.

"I saw." She began to mummer an incantation, stirring the mixture slowly.

"Maro pushed me, though," he added. "It's not my fault Jacques' such a little shrimp."

"And that Maro's the size of a house?" she queried. "How old is he, again? Fifteen?"

"Sixteen," Enilroth corrected. "He just had his birthday." His voice was muffled from inside his room. It was really nothing more than a corner sectioned off by a screen and a curtain, but it served its purpose. He reappeared, this time in a fresh set of clothes. "I'm off to Maro's now. Goodbye!"

The door slammed shut behind him, and Elbereth shook her head. He and Maro had been friends ever since their first couple of weeks in Bravil. They made an odd pair, Maro towering far over her pint-sized brother. But the two of them had hit it off for some reason, and had hardly strayed from each other's sides for the past three years.

She began to chant again, stirring more quickly. It was bubbling now, as the silk dissolved, turning the potion a dark, dull grey. If all went well, this would be a burdening poison. At least it looked the part; its color and stiffening consistency reminded her of a rock.

A sudden pounding on the door startled her. She jumped, dropping the stirring rod into the depths of the retort. It promptly sunk out of sight. Cursing to herself, she stomped toward the door. Enilroth had probably forgotten his key again. Throwing open the door, she snapped, "I thought I told you—"

She froze, her grip on the door frame tightening. A pair of guards stood there glaring menacingly, hands on sword hilts. "Is this the home of Enilroth?" the first one asked.

"Y-yes," she managed. Something wasn't right. Their eyes were hard, and they were advancing, slowly forcing her back fractions of inches at a time.

"Bring him out here," the guard ordered. Her heart leaped.

"He's not here," she blurted out. The guard's frowned deepened.

"Excuse me?" he thundered. She felt herself shrinking back; she couldn't help it.

"He went to a friend's!" she cried. "Why? What do you want with him?" The two glanced at each other, then back to her.

"He has attempted a murder. We have orders to bring him in."

"_What?_" The world seemed to wobble—if not for her hold on the door, she would have collapsed.

"The afternoon, he attempted to kill a classmate," the second guard stated very slowly. "We have orders to bring him in immediately."

Her voice was stuck in her throat, but she managed to form words anyway. "Please, please tell me you're not talking about Jacques Dalomax," she croaked. "Please, there's been a mistake." Again, they exchanged a glance.

"We'll be in touch." And then, mercifully, they turned and stalked down the stairs.

For a few minutes, all she could do was stand there. Her mind and heart racing, she took deep, shuddering breaths, trying to calm herself. And then, she sprung into action. She snatched her cloak and dashed out the door, flinging it around her shoulders as she dashed down the stairs. Weaving through the mild traffic, she sprinted across the street to the Fighters Guild and burst through the door.

"Mother!"

"Excuse me, miss." A sullen-faced young man attempted to grab her arm, but she wrenched away and ran to the back room.

"Elby! This is a surprise," Hasathil greeted cheerily, but the smile fell from her face as she took in her daughter's wide, panicked eyes and disheveled appearance. "Elbereth, what is it? What's happened?" She rose from her desk and swiftly strode across the room, holding the girl at arm's length.

"Enilroth," she gasped. "He and Maro were with some others…near the canal…that boy next door…the Breton…he fell in. And then the guards came!" Her voice rose shrilly. "They said it was attempted murder! Mother, they want to arrest him!"

"Talos save us." Hasathil's face went a white as Elbereth's. "Where is he now?"

"At Maro's. They left, but they said they'd be back," she whimpered. It was becoming harder to hold it together, and an old, all too familiar fear was starting to creep into the back of her mind. Hasathil nodded slowly.

"Go home," she ordered. "Lock the door, don't answer it for anyone. Stay in your room." She moved back over to the desk, corking the ink bottle and collecting papers into haphazard stacks. "I'm going to go get Enilroth," she announced, drawing on her cloak. "And then we're going to the castle to see if we can somehow figure this out." She paused. "For Talos' sakes, Elby, move!"

Elbereth obeyed, quickly darting out of the building and back across the street. Just as Hasathil insisted, she bolted herself firmly inside the house. And then she waited. The fire died down, but she made no move to stoke it. She simply sat on her bed, hands quietly folded in her lap, thinking.

She was confused over the entire situation, and afraid for Enilroth, but more than anything, she was angry. She was angry at herself for letting the guards intimidate her. She was angry at the snivelly-nosed little brat who had started this entire fiasco. But the most overwhelming anger was the one she couldn't quite put a finger on, for she didn't know who exactly it was she was angry at. For she was angry that she was afraid. The memories were once again resurfacing from the tiny box she was constantly pushing them down into: huddling into dark corners for days at a time, a solid fist connecting with her jaw, the taste of blood filling her mouth and trickling down the back of her throat, a pitch-black pair of eyes. She was tired of it. She didn't want to be afraid anymore.

She was startled from her reverie at the sound of a key scraping in the lock. For a moment, she froze, but then she heard Hasathil's voice. "Elbereth?"

"Mother!" Leaping from her bed, she dashed to the entryway. Hasathil stood there grimly, her hand on the shoulder of a very shaken-looking Enilroth. "Come inside," she urged. "Sit down. What happened?"

Hasathil sank down in front of the fire, removing her gloves as Elbereth hurried to stir up the coals and add another log. Enilroth sat next to his mother without speaking a word. His eyes were the size of dinner plates, and it broke Elbereth's heart to see the fear shining in them. "What happened?" she repeated, a bit more softly this time.

Hasathil took a shaky breath. "When we arrived at the castle," she said slowly, "the count was just sending out guards to hunt him down." Her arm tightened protectively around her son's shoulders. "However, seeing as we came of our own accord, he considered it as him turning himself in. That's why he's here right now." There were faint sparkles forming in her eyes, and Elbereth realized she wouldn't be able to keep her composure for much longer. "This afternoon, the boy's father showed up at the castle. He said his son had been tortured by, as he put it, "that Wood Elf miscreant" for far too long. He was making a scene, and the count's steward and some other woman got involved… Anyhow, it turned into an argument over immigration laws, and youth crime, and…." Her face crumpled, and she burst into tears. "It's a mess, Elby. It's a complete mess," she sobbed.

"Mother." Elbereth forced her voice to remain calm. "What is happening?" Hasathil swallowed nervously.

"A formal investigation," she managed through her tears. "The count ordered it. We go before him and argue our case, they argue theirs. We bring in witnesses, and he decides what's to be done."

"But it was just a simple accident." Elbereth practically whispered the words. "The count will understand. We don't need to worry, do we?"

"I hope not." Hasathil's eyes were dull. "But their faces...the boy's father, I mean, and the steward. You should have seen their faces. They all had this look…this look of pure…hatred." Her voice was very small. "I'm afraid." Judging from her pleading expression, Elbereth knew that her mind had travelled back several years as well.

"Don't be." Hasathil's eyes widened at her daughter's harsh tone. "That was then. This is now. We're different people. It will be all right. You'll see." Hasathil was clearly comforted by that little speech, for she let out a sigh and let her head droop to Elbereth's shoulder. But behind her head, the girl's eyes were hard. And as she held her terrified mother and wordless brother, she made a silent oath.

_I swear, on my life, by the Nine, by…anything, I will keep them safe. As long as there is breath in my body, no harm will come to them. Whatever it takes._


	17. Chapter 16: What Elbereth Did

**A/N: Well, here it is, what you've been waiting for. What exactly _did_ our dear heroine do to land herself in that off-limits cell in the Imperial Prison? Read and find out.**

**Also, I have a question...if you even read these notes, haha. This story will most definitely be seen to completion; I've invested too much in it to abandon it. But are you still interested in reading it? We only have about a month until the release of Skyrim, and even less than that until NaNoWriMo, which I will be participating in again this year. So that willl be my entire month of November, and then come December, I'm finally going to be able to break Skyrim out of the packaging and start playing. So my question is this, are you going to still be interested in this story then?  
In, say, January or February? Or would you rather read something Skyrim-based? Like I said, this story will be completed no matter what, but I just want to know if I should continue updating it or not. As much as I gripe about wanting reviews, I write for myself mostly; sharing it with you is an added bonus :)**

**And speaking of reviews, Omega Gilgamesh, thank you so much. I'm glad you're enjoying it, and I will definitely consider your suggestions when I re-edit. And yeah, I hope the thing about the Green Pact was cleared up in later chapters. I can see how that seems kind of inconsistant. Again, thank you.**

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Chapter 16: What Elbereth Did

"All hail his Lordship, Count Terentius of Bravil. Please stand and show respect." Elbereth rose to her feet along with the others clustered in the Great Hall, but the gesture was meaningless for her. She had lost all respect for the count long ago. She kept her eyes fastened securely to the ground, for it would not do for him to see the icy daggers shooting out of them. He made his way to the throne, the slight stagger in his gait undeniable. A faint feeling of disgust welled up in her at this; it wasn't right that this drunken fool was responsible for her brother's fate. He settled into the throne, let out a loud belch, and began to speak.

"Citizens, we gather once again in the matter of Enilroth and Jacques Dalomax. We have been hearing both sides for quite a while now. The time has come to make a ruling. But first, I must speak with Mr. Galenus and Ms. Maraennius."

The count's steward and the castle mage both stepped forward, leaning down to confer in with the count in whispers. Elbereth couldn't help but roll her eyes, earning her a stern glance from Hasathil. She couldn't understand why those two were so involved when they had no real authority in the situation. Whether or not the count was incoherent half the time, they made her nervous.

Vilbia Maraennius, the castle mage, had a distinct contempt for non-human races. As though that were not bad enough, she had a way of twisting her questions so her victim had no choice but to give her the answer she wanted. _"Did you not push the accused from the edge of the dock? Did you not rescue the accuser? Did the accuser not fall as a result of you coming into contact with him?" _Maro had little patience for this method, however, and had informed the woman of that fact, not bothering to put it lightly. He had nearly been locked up himself for that, and regardless, he had been asked not to return to the count's presence, thus eliminating Enilroth's only real defense. For Elbereth had not been allowed to testify, seeing as she "had not been present at the scene of the crime."

As for Xeno Galenus, the man was a bully, plain and simple. Intimidation was his key method, and Enilroth would crumble every time. Elbereth hated the sight of him: his dark, thinning hair, tightly pulled back in a ponytail, his long, pointed nose, his hard grey eyes. Even worse was his voice, deadly quiet, but with all the ferocity of a growling dog.

While they continued to whisper at the throne, Elbereth let her gaze travel across the room, where six others sat—six others she could not despise more if she tried. Jacques Dalomax, the little snot who started all this, sat with a frown on his face. Everything about him was thin and washed out, from his bony frame, to his limp, white-blond hair, to his pale blue eyes. To his left sat his mother, a red-faced Nord with graying chestnut hair. A hand rested protectively on her son's shoulder, a deceptively mothering gesture for such an intense woman. _"It's no coincidence!" _she had shrieked once during questioning, shaking her fist at Hasathil. _"Wood Elves start slaughtering every Imperial citizen in sight, and then you and your spawn turn up here, and your brat tries to kill my son!" _Vilbia had not been able to contain her smirk at that one. On the other side of Jacques sat his father, a Breton with dirty fingernails and shifty eyes. Although he remained silent for the most part, letting his wife do most of the talking, he had been the one to call the guards in the first place, and had convinced the count that Enilroth was a threat. "Wood Elf miscreant," indeed. Coming from a man who couldn't even be bothered to bathe. He glanced over in their direction, and she averted her eyes.

Behind them sat Jacques' pudgy little friend, an Argonian girl named Am-Ra. The girl was full of wild stories about Enilroth's supposed antics, some of the more graphic ones that Enilroth had pulled a dagger on Jacques, and that he had threatened to "string him up and cut out his eyeballs." Elbereth suspected this was done mainly at the urging of her mother, who had leapt to her feet, wailing, _"You can't let this monster run free! How am I supposed to keep my daughter safe? She could be next!" _after that particular tale. However, Elbereth had overheard her that same day praising her daughter for her "quick thinking" and "creativity." Meen-Sa was an evil bitch.

Of course, she could possibly have Sister Nin to blame for that. _"I first began teach Enilroth when his family first arrived in Cyrodiil—in the autumn of 3E429. Right after the Valenwood Uprising,"_ she had informed the count in a simpering tone. _"And Enilroth does have a habit of drawing…disturbing pictures during class. There's been…figures…with missing limbs. And a lot of blood. And lately he's been drawing weapons. Horrible, cruel things."_ She had added a dramatic shudder at the end of that little bit. Of course the woman had left out the fact that Enilroth hadn't drawn battle scenes in years, and that the "disturbing pictures" of weapons were actually tactical drawings. But what really angered Elbereth—and Hasathil—was the repeated implications about them during the Valenwood Uprising.

"I have reached a decision." The count's lazy tone burst through the tension, shattering it. He stood, using the arm of the throne to steady himself. "For months now, we have been hearing both sides of this argument, but at this point, both are entirely redundant. Mr. and Mrs. Dalomax maintain that the boy is a fanatical killer, and Ms. Hasathil insists that he is an innocent lamb. But neither of you can prove it. This is entirely redundant," he repeated, "and quite frankly, not worth my time." Elbereth felt her heart leap, as Hasathil let out a little gasp and Enilroth's shoulders straightened.

"While I do not believe the accused intended to kill, the fact remains that the accuser was in danger, and the accused was involved. Therefore, I sentence Enilroth to a year of imprisonment, as well as a fine of fifty septims, to be paid at the time of incarceration…"

His voice droned on, but Elbereth couldn't hear past the roaring in her ears. However, she was somehow able to infer that he would be given two days, and then was to report back to the castle. If no new evidence could be provided, and if the witnesses could still maintain their case, the sentence would proceed.

They didn't speak as they grimly marched out of the castle. It was Rain's Hand now, and the skies wore a dark grey shroud as a steady falling of raindrops patterned the canal surface. But once the front door was bolted behind them, it all let loose.

"What in Oblivion is this? _What is this!_" Elbereth shrieked. An arm shot out across the entryway table, sending a vase crashing to the floor, where it shattered.

"I don't want to go to prison! Please, _please_ don't make me go! _Please!_" Enilroth howled, his eyes wide with terror as he clung to Hasathil's arm. But Hasathil was in worse shape than any of them; her face had been bleached of all color, and she was sobbing hysterically.

"_Stop that!_" she suddenly screeched towards the kitchen, where Elbereth had hurled a stack of plates to the floor. In two strides, she crossed the room, and slapped the girl across the face with all the force she could muster. "You just calm down," she hissed, twisting her daughter's arm at an unnatural angle. "This is hard for all of us. But there's nothing we can do."

"That's not true—" Elbereth began to shout, but she was silenced by a sharp tug at her already-strained arm.

"Grow up. When will you ever learn?" Hasathil growled in fury. "Some things are out of our control. You are behaving like a baby, and you are only making things worse for your brother. There is nothing we can do." With that, she released her, and turned sharply on her heel. "Enilroth, go to bed," she barked, striding towards her room.

"But Mother—" he protested, tears beginning to stain his eyes.

"Shut up. I said go to bed! There's nothing we can do!" And with that, their mother's bedroom door slammed shut. Enilroth's face slightly wobbled for a second, then he, too, fled towards his little section and disappeared behind the curtain.

Only Elbereth stood frozen where she was, ignoring the throbbing pain in her arm. "That isn't true," she whispered into the semi-darkness. "I won't let it be."

Somewhere in the abyss under her bed was stashed her _Laws of Tamriel _book from her first year at the Chapel. After a few minutes of scrounging, she found it, blowing the dust from the cover and carrying it out to the kitchen table where her Illusion book already sat. It was a long night, pouring over the books by candlelight, as the wind and rain battered the sides of the house.

Hasathil still hadn't emerged from her room by the time she headed off to the Chapel in the morning. All eyes were on her as she slid into the back pew with the other teenaged youth, and the whispers started up from every corner of the room. She knew the verdict was out, and she knew what they were saying. The morning passed by in a blur, and by noon, she was striding down the Chapel stairs. Lessons would not let out until later in the afternoon, but seeing as she had practically finished all the requirements, she was allowed out several hours early each day. She had a small job at A Warlock's Luck, but instead of turning south down the street, she headed straight, past the Lucky Old Lady, towards her own home.

She was half-worried that Hasathil would still be there, but miraculously, the house was empty. She hurriedly dumped _Laws of Tamriel _and _Principles of Illusion_ out on the table, flipping to the pages she had dog-eared the night before. She then crossed to the sideboard, groping along the top shelf until her hand closed around the knife Hasathil kept for chopping vegetables, along with a small stone. She settled back at the table, her eyes skimming over a short paragraph and a detailed diagram as she began to sharpen it.

Half an hour later, she tested its sharpness against her thumb, pleased when a drop of bright red blood appeared. That knife had never been that sharp before, and it had certainly never tasted flesh. She bit her lip, trying very hard not to think about what was coming.

At two-thirty, she slipped out the front door, down the stairs, and up the set next door. Her heart pounding, she pressed herself up against the wall, hoping no one below had taken notice of her. Taking a deep breath, she trailed her fingers along the top of the door frame, relief washing over her as they found a key. She slipped it into the lock, and it clicked open. Hurrying inside, she took a stance behind the door and waited.

An hour later, she started as a thump came from outside the door. It opened, and then Jacques Dalomax entered, slamming it shut behind him. He dropped his pack onto the floor, and then he saw her. He opened his mouth to scream, but she was already in motion.

Hurling herself across the room, she clamped a hand over his mouth, stifling it. His teeth closed down on her hand, and she winced, nearly crying out herself. Despite being quite small and skinny, he was _strong_. However, she was stronger, and she managed to wrestle him to the floor. She pulled the knife free from her belt as he bucked beneath her. Gritting her teeth, she maneuvered it into position—and thrust it upward.

Jacques immediately went still. Elbereth frantically rolled away as his limbs went limp, the knife protruding from the base of his skull. It had worked. According to her Illusion book, she had hit him right at the central part of his brain, shutting down his heart and lungs. He was dead. She felt like bursting into tears right then and there, but she forced herself to get up and drag his body out of the entryway, and mop up the blood left behind. What had been done was done. There was no turning back now. Otherwise, it would all be for nothing. Luckily, she had thought to change into dark clothing, so the stains were barely noticeable. Pocketing the key, she glanced around the house once more and then left. She was far from finished.

Am-Ra was stupid enough to open the door at her knock, and it hadn't been difficult to force her way in. The girl froze in shock, though, and was dead in a matter of moments. Meen-Sa, however, appeared in the doorway behind her, and began screaming. She rushed forward, fists ready, but Elbereth squeezed her eyes shut and buried the blade in the woman's face. The screams turned into gurgles, but she landed a surprisingly powerful punch to Elbereth's gut, knocking her back into the wall. Desperately, she snatched hold of the woman's cranial spines, and managed to force her head down and get the blade in. She didn't bother to clean up this time; instead, she wiped her face and hands off and fled towards the Chapel. There was no way that had not attracted any attention. Time was beginning to run out.

She found Sister Genevieve Nin weeding the flowerbeds in the cemetery behind the Chapel. This time, she was able to make a surprise attack, and left the priestess lying face down in the dirt as she sped back across town toward the Dalomax home.

To her horror, however, the door was not locked, as she had left it. Someone else was here. This was not part of the plan. "Thetrard?" a woman's voice called. Elbereth froze, and tried to back towards the door, but it was too late. She found herself face to face with Nastassja Dalomax.

The woman's face was redder than usual, and tears were dripping from her eyes. With a sinking feeling, Elbereth realized she was in trouble. "You," Nastassja growled. "You little cannibalistic whore. You killed my boy." Elbereth felt her head slowly nod. She stood there, numb, even as a dangerous light began to emanate from the woman's eyes. Without warning, Nastassja sprung. Elbereth's head cracked into the wall as nails raked her face and kicks landed against her shins. A fresh burst of pain ripped through her as one of Nastassja's hand's came away with a clump of her hair, and she quickly came out of her daze. Her hand found her belt, and she plunged the knife into Nastassja's abdomen.

A surprised look came over the woman's face, as she coughed up some blood. It only stunned her for a moment though; she immediately resumed her attack. But it had shaken her, and she was losing blood. Elbereth was able to slice her hand open, and then stick her in the opposite shoulder. By now, the front of her dress was soaked through, and she seemed to realize she was losing this fight. She turned to run out the door, but that was her fatal mistake. As she turned her back, Elbereth's blade hit home. "I killed him," she hissed, "but I am _not_ a cannibal."

She sagged back against the wall, fighting back tears. The scratches on her face were stinging, and her bruised legs were throbbing. There was a knot emerging at the back of her head, and her fingers absently probed at it. This was such a mess. But there was no time for weakness, she chided herself firmly. She wasn't done yet. A sound at the door sent her skittering for the shadows.

"By the Nine! Nastassja!" Thetrard Dalomax ran to his wife's fallen body. He never noticed the other presence in the room, even as she emerged and sent him to join his wife and son.

It was dark as she left the Dalomax house for the final time. She headed toward the castle, the implications of what she had just done—and was about to do—slowly starting to creep up on her. She had killed. Not just thought about it, not just kept track of her targets' habits, not just studied Chapel-issued textbooks to learn humanoid beings' most vulnerable areas. She had actually gone through with it. If they were dead, their case against Enilroth was non-existent, but…it had felt good. They had paid for all the misery her family had been through. It was as it should be.

She forced herself to focus. She was inside the castle gates now, and very much in danger. She was lucky that the darkness had kept the guards from seeing the bloodstains, but it was later than she had hoped it would be. As she rounded a corner, she gasped to herself. Too late. Xeno Galenus and Vilbia Maraennius were walking straight towards her, having completed their daily supper in the gardens. However, they seemed not to recognize her. They strode right on past, laughing at some joke. She froze a step and a half behind them, knowing that her plan was absolutely ruined at this point, but that she had to see it to _some_ end. Even if that meant…

She spun and buried the knife in Xeno's skull. He fell, and Vilbia began to shriek. Her dull brown eyes suddenly alive, she turned to flee. _Oh, no you don't. _Elbereth threw herself forward and tackled the woman to the ground. But she was putting up a good fight, and she _wouldn't stop screaming. _In desperation, Elbereth found herself madly stabbing at the woman's body as she sobbed, "_Please_ stop screaming, _please, please, please stop_." The blood was everywhere, in her eyes, in her hair, coating the ground and causing her to slip when she tried to stand up. The screams had turned to gurgles, but there was still a fierce light on in Vilbia's eyes. She wasn't dead yet, but the guards' shouts were approaching, along with torchlight. Elbereth had no choice.

She backed into the bushes, creeping through the growth with barely a sound. The guards ran past, and her breath caught in her throat, but she pressed on. And once she reached the entrance, she stopped sneaking and broke into a flat-out run.

"Hey!" a guard shouted as she sprinted past, but she didn't slow. Her feet beat against the ground in a furious tempo, as she sped along faster than she ever had in her life, even faster than that last night in Valenwood. She took the long way home, weaving through alleys and unmarked pathways, until she was sure she was not being followed. As soon as her front door had closed behind her, she burst into tears.

She stumbled to the washbasin, the tears blurring her vision as she scrubbed away the worst of the blood. She changed into a set of well-worn, sturdy clothing, vaguely aware of the fact that Hasathil and Enilroth were nowhere to be found. She was stuffing a blanket into her pack, along with every scrap of food she had been able to find in the house, when she heard an all too familiar pounding at the door.

She froze. They had found her. The pounding came again as she wildly searched for an alternate exit. Could she manage to climb out through the chimney? "Break it down!" came a muffled shout.

Two splintering crashes later, the door burst inward, and the Bravil Watch poured in. It was over. She knew she was trapped. But she still hurled a chair at the first one who grabbed for her. He stumbled, and she broke away, fleeing towards Hasathil's bedroom. But the guard was hot on her heels, and he grabbed hold of her arm, even as she hurled herself towards the crevice on the other side of the bed. He grunted as he was pulled along with, but there was no breaking his iron grip on her arm. Her other one shot up, flaying open the side of his face. He let out a yelp, but caught hold of her wrist, managing to pin her against the wall. Another one appeared beside him, and together, they hauled her out. She thrashed about in attempt to break free, even though in the back of her mind she knew it was futile.

Outside, it was raining again. She was dragged down the stairs, her feet and already bruised shins scraping painfully on every step. And then they were in the street, which was already turning into a river of mud. Then the castle, where a seeming innumerable number of guards was milling around, and…Legion? Oh gods. This was not good.

She was thrown into a small, cramped cell, with only a filthy bedroll lying on the floor. She crouched in the center, a noise similar to a low growl emanating from her throat. She tried to slow her breathing, but then she only remembered how terrified she was. Enilroth was safe. Justice had been served. But…was she ready to die for her brother? Did she really love him that much? But why would she be there if she didn't? She felt the tears start again. Gods, what had she done?

A Legion guard appeared in front of her cell, flanked by two Bravil guards. Her anger returned in an instant, as she hunkered down glowering at them. "You'll need to change into a prison uniform, miss," he stated firmly.

"Make me." The words leapt from her mouth before she could stop them. The Legion guard simply rolled his eyes.

"I was afraid it would come to this. Believe it or not, I will. Restrain her." This last comment was directed towards his companions, who unlocked the cell and took hold of her arms, hauling her to her feet before she could put up any fight. The Legion guard approached, his smirk sending her fury to a boiling point. She lashed out with both her feet, kicking him square in the face. He cried out in pain. "Why you—" An iron-gloved fist connected with the side of her head, and she knew no more.


	18. Chapter 17: Facing the Darkness

**A/N: Hey everyone! I'm back...finally! How does everyone like Skyrim? What with NaNoWriMo, finals, and some family problems, and I haven't had much time to play it, sadly. But I have a nice long break ahead of me, so I'm looking forward to that.**

**And no fear, I have NO intention of abandoning this story. It will be seen to the end, trust me. Thank you so much for the reviews, alerts and favorites. I'm really glad you seem to be enjoying reading it as much as I am writing it.**

**And finally, I want to wish everyone a very happy Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, or anything else you may celebrate around this time of year. Happy reading!**

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Chapter 17: Facing the Darkness

I opened my eyes to an oppressive grey surface pressing down on me. I jerked upright, then let out a moan as a burning pain shot through my body. What in Oblivion had happened? A low chuckle from my left captured my attention.

"Ah, so you awaken at last." Vicente Valtieri rose from his desk and crossed to my bedside, a peculiar expression on his face. "M'raaj-Dar guessed it would be any day now—correctly so, obviously."

"Vicente?" Sitting up required too much effort, so I allowed myself to slump back. I was in his quarters, on the stone slab he used as a bed. "What…why…?" Luckily, he didn't force me to try to vocalize my confusion.

"Black-Heart Blight," he announced, gracefully settling on the edge of the slab. "We assume you contracted it on your trip to Bruma. There was an outbreak among the beggars there. It would seem the infected may carry it for several days before displaying symptoms, or we would have caught it before we sent you out on another contract."

"The contract!" I made to sit up again, but another flash of pain came, worse than the one before. "Leyawiin…the dungeons…I…I got him. At least I think…" I didn't bother to complete the thought. My head was pounding, and I was so tired. I wanted to go back to sleep.

"Yes, the contract. You completed it, quite successfully, might I add. Your payment is waiting for you—along with a bonus." I nodded, drowsiness starting to cloud my brain. "Go back to sleep. We'll discuss it when you're stronger." I was vaguely aware of an odd light in his eyes before I drifted off.

When I awoke, the room was empty. I once more attempted to sit up, moving slowly until I was upright. The pain was still there, radiating from my chest, but it was bearable. My legs felt wobbly as I felt for the floor, wincing a little at the stone's cold touch on my bare feet. As soon as I put weight on them, however, they collapsed beneath me.

"Lily!" Vicente appeared out of nowhere, catching me before I hit the floor. "You stupid girl," he grumbled. "What were you thinking?"

"Sorry, I—" My voice felt thick in my throat. "I was just wondering—where everyone was." He settled me back onto the sleeping slab, pulling the blankets back over me.

"Ocheeva is working on reports, M'raaj-Dar, Gogron, and Telaendril are out on contracts, Teinaava is asleep, and I have no idea where Antoinetta is." He tucked the corner of the last blanket into place, looking quite pleased with himself. Despite myself, I felt a strong urge to giggle. Wait until I told Ann about this.

"What time is it?"

"Two o'clock in the afternoon." He took his desk chair and slid it over to my bedside. I began to feel distinctly uneasy.

"What's today's date?"

"The second of Rain's Hand."

"Rain's Hand!" I screeched as I bolted up, rumpling the blankets he had just made up. "I was out for _two months_?"

"It was M'raaj-Dar's doing," Vicente replied mildly. "A quite powerful sleeping draught. He felt it would be easier for your body to fight the infection that way. And that is probably what saved your life. Now…" He settled into the chair and crossed his arms. My mind was still reeling from the shock, but I could feel a serious discussion coming on. There was that peculiar expression on his face again.

"I did some research over the past two months," he began.

"Oh?" I squirmed uncomfortably. I had a feeling I wasn't going to like where this was headed.

"Yes." He nodded. "I learned a great deal about crime in Bravil in the past year. Also about immigration during the Valenwood Uprising."

Oh gods. So he knew. I buried my face in my hands, unable to look at him straight on. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" The chair creaked as he leaned in closer. "I also spoke to Lucien. I had no idea that the two of you had met previously." Something clicked then; those dark, calculating eyes, that roguish grin—I had indeed met the Speaker long before the Brotherhood ever found me.

"Tell me about your father." Vicente's voice was strangely gentle.

"What about him?" I muttered bitterly.

"What I don't know." His gaze was hard. "The Legion is nothing if not thorough. One of the rebels had a daughter by the name of Elbereth, who went missing during the Uprising, and was presumed dead. Yet a few months later, a girl by the same name turns up in Cyrodiil, and in a few years goes on a killing spree. And later that same year, a young Bosmer woman using an alias is inducted into the Brotherhood. That is what I do know. Now help me fill in the blanks."

I stared at him for a moment, half dazed, with no clue of what to say. "What happened to Nedhel?" Although his tone was gentler, the first mention of my father's name in five years shook me to the core.

"He went mad," I blurted out, half a sob, half a whisper. I angrily dashed at the tears pricking up in my eyes. "I don't know what happened." I took a deep breath and dared a look at Vicente. His face held no emotion, so I nervously began speaking again.

"My father was very traditional. I mean, to him, the Green Pact was everything. But my mother…" I swallowed hard and continued. "My mother was different. Her parents were killed when she was a baby, and an Imperial family raised her and her sister. And when my brother and I were born…we worshiped the Nine, we ate whatever we wanted…we lived in a wooden house for crying out loud!" The sudden flash of anger hit me out of nowhere.

"I have no idea how in Oblivion my parents ended up together! They were complete opposites!"

To my surprise, Vicente merely chuckled. "Young love," he said evenly, as though it were the most obvious fact in the world. "It can have quite the effect."

I snorted. "They didn't love each other," I reassured him. "However they felt—it was anything but love."

"Maybe at the time." He was using that gentle tone again, which for some reason only made me feel more uneasy. "But in the throes of passion, it is entirely possible for two people to convince each other that their differences—no matter how great—can somehow be overcome."

"Well they were wrong then." I crossed my arms over my chest. However, I nearly died of shock when Vicente actually laughed out loud.

"Yes, that is often how it works." He nodded, somewhat sadly. "I would know," he added, more to himself than to me. But before I could question this, he spoke again.

"But tell me, Lily. You and your family—how did you end up in Cyrodiil?" His hypnotic red eyes were boring into my own, and I felt that I somehow had to answer.

"He tried to kill me." Strangely enough, it was the first time I had ever vocalized it. "My father tried to kill me." Those traitorous tears were welling up in my eyes, and I had to fight to keep them down. "I don't know why. But for some reason, he considered me a curse. He wanted me dead to please _Umaril_." I spat out the name, also for the first time, its taste foul on my tongue.

Vicente leaned back in his chair and gave a long sigh. "Do you know who Umaril is? Aside from the context of the Valenwood Uprising?"

"A sorcerer king from Ayleid times. Killed by Pelinal Whitestrake," I muttered. That name had immediately stuck out when I stumbled across it in my history book. But Vicente shook his head.

"Not killed. Only banished," he corrected. "Umaril managed to escape to the plane of Meridia. He still exists in spiritual form." Here, he gave another long, drawn out sigh. "Lily, I will not pretend that I worship the Nine Divines. But I would a fool to deny that the Aedra and the Daedra are two very real, very powerful opposing forces. Umaril gained power by currying favor with the Daedra, and so the Aedra struck him down. This is a war that has been going on for longer than our world has been in existence, yet we are the casualties." He gave an unsettling smile. "Taking up the banner of a god does not necessarily make one their agent, a concept that clearly escaped your father, and many of the Bosmer people in fact. The Empire so strongly promotes worship of the Nine, but when it conquered Valenwood, it was an act of man, not of god. Few could see it that way, though. Ignorance makes a nation, or even a solitary individual weak. And Umaril used that ignorance against many poor foolish Bosmer, your father included."

"But I thought…isn't Sithis…Daedra?" The question came out jumbled, but he seemed to understand.

"No. Our Dread Father is…something else entirely. He takes no part in their war, and therefore neither do we. But it seems," here, he leaned closer, "you may still have some stake in it yet. I suppose the Emperor told you as much?"

"W-what?"

His eyes bored deep into my own. "As I said previously, the Legion is meticulously thorough. They know how to maintain their image, but they keep impeccable records. No prisoner has managed to escape the Imperial Prison since the days of the Imperial Simulacrum. And yet, the night the Emperor and his heirs are killed, a lone girl manages to escape." I swallowed hard.

"How much do you know?"

"Everything."

"Oh gods." I buried my face in my hands. When I finally dared to lift it, his gaze was still locked on mine.

"Do you still have it in your possession?" Very slowly, I nodded. "Good." He gave a curt nod. "It is an object of great power, nothing to be trifled with."

"Why…why aren't they after me?" My head was throbbing, but I realized the gravity of the situation.

"Quite frankly, they doubt you still possess it. Most criminals, given the opportunity, would have immediately sold it. And as for yourself…given the circumstances, hunting you down would be more of risk than just letting you go. So that is what they have decided to do. However, you must understand that it is imperative that you do not allow yourself to be captured while on contracts. You have much more to lose than many of your brothers and sisters."

"You mean…" I frowned, trying to process what he was saying. "You mean, you're just going to…ignore…this?" I didn't understand. Here I was, apparently the most wanted individual in the Empire, and he was just…letting me go?

"My dear Lily." He chuckled again. "Have I not told you, that _this is not our war?_" He shook his head briefly. "Truly, the Night Mother has had her eye on you for far longer than any of us realized. What is written in the Elder Scrolls will always come to pass. You, my dear, have been marked my Aedra and Daedra alike since your birth. Quite interesting, though, given your penchant for death."

"I don't have a penchant for death!" I burst out. "You think I do this for _fun?_"

"Clearly not." He frowned deeply. "So enlighten me, Lily. Why do you?"

"It was an accident!" I snapped. His eyebrows shot up.

"Really? You killed ten before you even came to us. _Ten!_ And you expect me to believe you committed ten murders _purely by accident?_" His eyes were practically glowing, and his snarl revealed his fangs.

"The one in the Imperial city _was_ an accident! But Rufio was a monster!" I shouted.

"And the eight others?"

My shoulders slumped. "They…weren't by accident," I muttered. "But they were necessary." My rage suddenly returned, and I met his harsh gaze straight on. "It was the only way I could save my baby brother."

"Save him from what?" His features were still contorted by anger, but his voice was slightly gentler.

"From an attempted murder charge. Because apparently, if filthy cannibalistic Wood Elves' existence is _offensive_ to pure Imperial citizens, that's grounds for imprisonment." I hissed out the words as though they were burning my tongue. To my surprise, Vicente said nothing. Feeling awkward, I continued speaking. "You know, not even M'raaj-Dar hates me more than anyone else. And I would understand if he did! I never even _saw_ a Khajiit for the first time until I was thirteen, and…I was _surprised_ not to hate them. And I was surprised that they didn't hate me! There are those you expect. Khajiit and Bosmer. Dunmer and Nords. But…these Imperials…they hate everyone!" Vicente was still silent. I slumped back onto my pillow.

"I know I'm not a good assassin," I said softly, speaking to the ceiling. "I'm too…soft, I guess. But I did enjoy killing my brother's enemies. And this last contract, too."

"Why?" Vicente's voice startled me. I whipped my head to the side, staring at him in confusion. "Why did you enjoy it?" he prompted further.

"Because…" I struggled to find the words to explain, but finally just settled on the truth. "Because I watched him mutilate a little boy minutes before," I admitted, my voice barely a whisper. "I…I don't know why I cared. I mean…I've killed children. But it didn't bother me then." I paused. "It doesn't bother me now."

"Suddenly, you make so much more sense." Vicente's voice was slow and deliberate. I turned my head away. "We all have our reasons for killing. For profit, for pleasure, for the glory of our Dread Father. And you, it would seem, kill for justice."

"Not all the time, obviously. I'm an assassin, remember?" I muttered, still not daring to look at him.

"Oh?" I could just picture his eyebrow rising. "Who do you think name our targets? Who do you think pay for our services?" He chuckled. "The weak, Lily. With every kill, you are avenging the weak." I finally turned my head back towards him, only to see a bemused smirk on his face. "When your brother was threatened, you took his fate into your own hands and dealt with the problem. You are strong, Lily, and so I assume doing so was second nature to you." Slowly I nodded in agreement. "But not everyone is like you or I. For some, fate is out of their hands. Every single one of our clients has been wronged in some way. We can not always know how, and it is not for us to judge why. But with every contract, you do for them what they are not strong enough to do for themselves. Keep that thought in mind." His tone grew serious.

"You have the potential to be a great assassin. Maybe not for a long while, but someday. Always remember why you kill. And that everyone has their own reasons. Learn to think in that manner, and you will go far." He paused, letting that sink in. "For now, though, I leave you to your rest. You are still quite ill, with a long road to recovery ahead of you." He stood and headed toward the door. "Sleep well, Lily." And then he was gone.

I lay still, thinking over all that he had said. I constantly worried about the targets, but I had never given much thought to the clients. Clearly, not every single one of them was a victim, but Vicente's words were comforting just the same. A year ago, I had been a scared young girl facing one of her biggest fears. But I had dealt with it, and it had been worth it. I hadn't been so certain at the time, and there had been many times during the past year that I had cursed my decision. But what if I had taken a different route? Could the Brotherhood have helped me save my brother—and myself? I bit down on my lip, pushing that thought from my mind. Never dwell on what could have been. I learned that lesson long ago.

Despite the pain radiating through my body, my eyelids finally began to droop. Vicente had been right. I had a lot of recovering to do. And once that was complete, another contract would await me. I was an assassin—and for the first time, there seemed to be some reason in that.

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**A/N: What did you all think of this chapter? I kind of included a lot of lore; did I screw any of it up? I was really nervous about that...let me know if there are any major errors, and I'll clean those up right away.**


	19. Chapter 18: Little Sister

**A/N: Hello all! Sorry for the delay; I've been training really hard with my team and I haven't had much time to write. We have our first regatta of the season tomorrow, so wish us luck! This chapter is pretty short; a little bit of filler and a lot of minor character development. Hope you enjoy it; either way we have another plot twist coming up, so that should be exciting. I also just want to say a quick thank you to my reviewers. Your kind words mean a lot, and inspire me more than you know. Anyhow, I think that's all I have to say for now. Read and enjoy!**

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Chapter 18: Little Sister

"Where are you from, Lily?" I glanced over at Ann, who was shivering beneath her blankets. The Sanctuary was rather chilly today, but I personally was enjoying it. I had spent a better part of the morning running through the forest on my back to Cheydinhal, and although the day was cool, the air was thick and damp, trapping the sweat beneath my armor. It had been a relief to finally peel it off once I was safe inside the Sanctuary.

"Bravil," I responded, blowing on the ink as I willed it to dry. I had been promoted to Eliminator earlier in the year, and along with my new rank came many changes. Aside from more gold and harder contracts, I now reported to Ocheeva—who required detailed reports to be written out after each contract.

"No, I mean before that." I set aside my quill and stretched my arms over my head.

"What makes you think I lived anywhere else?"

"Your voice. It sounds different from others. The words are sort of longer, but then...I don't know. Almost chopped off."

"What?" Suddenly, I was fourteen years old again, burning scarlet as students and teachers alike laughed at my atrocious accent. "Nobody's called me out on that in at least six years." Despite myself, I could feel my face flaming.

"It's not that obvious!" Ann reassured quickly. "I just have a good ear for lin…linguistics. At least that's what Teinaava says." She shrugged, her thin shoulders shifting the blankets.

"Very perceptive," I sighed. "I grew up on a small farm in Valenwood."

"What was it like?"

"It was…different." I could feel myself beginning to squirm uncomfortably. Thinking on the past was disconcerting, and besides, I had found a new family and a new home. "What about you?" I asked quickly.

"Oh, everywhere," she sighed. "I was born in High Rock. My aunt brought me to Cyrodiil after my parents died." A shadow flickered across her face, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. I had seen that look before, though, and I felt worry creep over me.

Ann was mostly silent on the subject of her past, not an uncommon occurrence among those of us in the Sanctuary. However, as with all of us, details sometimes came to light, and I suddenly remembered something she had once said.

"Ann, when were you in the Imperial Prison?" Instantly, her face was transformed into a blank mask.

"When I was twelve," she said uncomfortably. "Same year the Brotherhood found me."

"For how long?" I asked the question tentatively, suddenly unsure around this passive stranger.

"I don't know. A few months?" She suddenly changed the subject. "Why did you leave Valenwood?" I hesitated, then decided to answer anyway.

"My father had gotten involved with a dangerous group," I muttered, not looking at Ann. "When he tried to sacrifice me to their leader, the rest of my family fled to keep us safe."

"Oh." She was silent for a moment, and I kept my gaze fastened on the parchment. Then I heard the bed creak as she sat up and crawled to the end. "I was there for five months. From Mid-Year to Sun's Dusk, 430." I looked over at her then, and her pale blue eyes were full of a pain I had never noticed before. She quickly looked away though, and her hand flicked up to the corner of her eye.

"For me, it was only four," I confided. "Rain's Hand to Last Seed 433. Three years after you." Her head whipped back towards me.

"You were there too?" I nodded. "Did…did you ever…" She began to ask something, but her voice trailed off.

"Did I ever…?" I probed, but the stranger had returned.

"Never mind." She flopped back into bed and turned over, leaving me to stare questioningly at her back. That had been my first glimpse into the mystery that was Antoinetta Marie.

* * *

"My first was my aunt. Poison in her stew. She fell right into the bowl." Ann giggled loudly as I urgently elbowed her in the side.

"Ann, shut up!" I hissed. We were sitting along the bank of the little river that flowed through Cheydinhal, pretending for a few moments that we were normal young women.

"No one's listening!" she laughed.

"There's a guard right there." I pointed to the bridge, where a figure in the familiar brown cuirass stood.

"He doesn't know what we're talking about." As if to prove her point, she waved merrily at him. He touched his helm in response, and she giggled again. "See? He doesn't suspect a thing. All he knows is that we're young and pretty." There was a hint of venom in her tone at that last statement, and I felt my curiosity piqued.

"I didn't know guards were your type," I said evenly.

"Oh, _no_." She practically shuddered, adamantly shaking her head. "Absolutely not." I nearly laughed out loud at her expression of disgust.

"Then what is?" I pressed. "Assassins?" She shrugged and quickly looked away, and I knew I had struck a nerve.

"A specific assassin?" I queried. Her face flamed, and I knew I was getting closer. Somehow I was surprised, but I knew I shouldn't be. She was a young girl, after all. It was normal for her to want to chase after boys. Just because I had accepted the fact that it wasn't a possibility didn't mean she had.

"Who is it?" I teased further. "Is it someone I know? Teinaava? Gogron? Oh, it better not be Gogron; Telaendril will have your head." I giggled, sounding just like Ann. "Lucien?"

"Shut up!" I immediately fell silent, not sure if I was more surprised by her outburst or by what had just been revealed.

"Ann, I'm sorry, I was just—" I began, but she cut me off.

"No, no don't worry about it. I know it's stupid," she mumbled.

"No, not necessarily," I tried to reassure her, but my mind was racing as I tried to imagine my little sister with our elusive Speaker. It could work for her, at least in theory. As dysfunctional as Telaendril and Gogron's relationship was, they somehow made it work. Normal relationships were out of the question for us, but another assassin would be another matter entirely. Still, there were the gaps between them; in age, in rank…

As if she had read my mind, she spoke up on cue. "No, I'm just another Sister to him." There was a wistfulness in her face that tugged at my heart. "But I will _always_ think of Lucien Lachance as my savior," she added fiercely. "When he found me, I was living in a gutter, an inch away from death. I owe him _everything_." I stayed quiet, unsure of how to respond to her intimate confession.

"Ann, you're young, you're beautiful, and you're hopelessly devoted to the Family," I finally spoke. "If you…talked to him maybe…" I suggested, but she was shaking her head rapidly.

"No, I couldn't. What would I say to him? 'Hello Speaker, I've been obsessed with you since I was a little girl. Now will you sweep me off my feet and love me forever?' As if that would win him over." She snorted. "Besides, he wouldn't want me. To him, I'm just a kid, and on top of it, I'm a terrible assassin." I saw that she was blinking back tears. "He needs someone he has more in common with. Like you. You should be with him."

"Oh, _Ann_!" Suddenly, I was doubled over laughing, and she was left staring at me in confusion. When I finally was able to catch my breath, I turned to her. "Ann, the Family is all I need. All I want." I shook my head. "I have no interest in Lucien, or in anyone else. I will die in service to our Dread Father, and I will die happy. I don't need anything else." I placed a hand on her shoulder. "Talk to him, Antoinetta. You never know what could happen." But her face once again wore that closed-off expression.

"I'd have better luck with _him_," she spat sourly, glaring over at the guard, who had not moved from his spot on the bridge. "What are you staring at?" she shouted suddenly, in harsher tones than I had ever heard her speak. I felt myself shrink back a little, even as the guard quickly made an exit.

When Ann looked back to me, her face was sunny once more. "Are you ready to head back to the Sanctuary?"

* * *

Rain stung my eyes as I swiped at my target, a snarling Camonna Tong agent. My blow fell short though, glancing off of his armor and allowing him to swing his axe toward my head. I dodged away in time, but lost my footing on the slippery rock. The axe thudded harmlessly against the ground, but suddenly he held the advantage.

The contract should have been easy enough. Two minor thugs needed to simply be dealt with; manner of death to be determined by the assassin. They were found in a camp away from the city, so there was no need to worry about witnesses. Also, I wasn't alone; Vicente had sent Ann along with me at the last minute. And now, I was staring death in the face.

The only thing that saved me was the very thing that had disadvantaged me in the first place. Dragged down by his weapon, he, too, slipped, and suddenly we were rolling on the ground, exchanging a flurry of punches.

My gauntlets saved my knuckles from being shredded as I repeatedly struck him, his blows landing muffled along my leather-padded sides. Then he got in a lucky strike and broke my nose, the metal ridges of his gauntlets effectively shattering the cartilage. Stars exploded before my vision as I gasped out in pain. He drew back, pleased, and groped for his axe. That was my opening. I sprung forward and stuck my dagger into his neck.

He howled out in pain, and swatted me away like a fly, knocking my hand loose from the dagger. I scrambled back, weaponless, as he lurched to his feet, the hilt of my dagger protruding awkwardly from his neck. As he lifted his axe, I grabbed hold of a nearby tree branch and hauled myself upward. Ten feet up in the air, I paused, and glanced down at him. He was staring at me with an almost quizzical expression. "You…crazy…bitch," he wheezed. He was panting heavily, and clearly losing a lot of blood. He hefted his axe once more, then fell, sprawling out in the mud. I dropped beside him and retrieved my dagger.

"Give my regards to Sithis," I murmured, finishing the kill. I winced as I straightened and wiped my dagger. That had been ugly. If Vicente had seen that, I would have found myself doing drills for hours. I brought a hand up to my face, shuddering as it came away bloody. I had accumulated a great many injuries over the years, but seeing my own blood still made me squeamish. However, I had another set of problems on my mind.

Ann was nowhere to be seen, nor was the other thug. It was also quiet—too quiet. The wind was howling through the trees, but there should have been some sound of battle—grunts of effort, clashing metal, the creaks and twangs of a bow—anything. Oh gods, I hoped they hadn't killed each other. Or even worse, that Ann had been killed, and the other thug was still out there. "Ann?" I called out cautiously, hoping for some sort of response, and praying I wasn't giving away my position. Then the scream echoed through the woods.

I was instantly sprinting forward, branches whipping my already battered face as I darted through the trees, leaping over rocks and fallen logs. I would have ran right past the little enclave in the rocks if the flash of movement hadn't caught my eye, but as it was, I skidded to a stop, unsure of what to make of the sight before my eyes.

There was Ann, kneeling in the mud, her silvery hair all in a tangle as she repeatedly stabbed at the second thug's body. He was still alive, his red gaze catching mine as he raised a hand in supplication. He opened his mouth, a gurgle of blood spilling out, and then went still. Ann, however, continued stabbing.

"Ann." I took a tentative step toward her, unsure of how she would react. Her shoulders heaved as she continued the methodical motion. I remembered what the others had told me about her fits, and slowly reached out again. "Ann, it's me. It's Lily. You can stop now." The blows slowed, but she gave no indication of being aware of my presence. "Ann? It's okay. He's dead." The blows stopped, and she slowly turned her head toward me. Her blue eyes were wide and distant, and she looked right through me as she spoke.

"Never again." Her voice was a ragged whisper. "After the Prison, I swore it would never happen again. And I won't let it." I suddenly noticed that some of the buckles of her armor were unfastened, and that the thug's pants were halfway down. My stomach gave a sudden twist. Oh gods.

"Ann, he's dead," I whispered.

"He's dead," she repeated slowly. Her eyes refocused, and as soon as her gaze met mine, her face crumpled and she burst into tears. I reached towards her once more, and she threw herself into my arms, huddling into my chest as she wept.

"Shh, shhh. It's all right now," I whispered, as soothingly as I could manage. "Tonight Sithis feasts on his soul. And you're safe. The Night Mother smiles upon her favored daughters; do you remember Ocheeva telling us that?" I murmured other mundane words of comfort, stroking her hair until the sobs dissipated and she slowly sat up on her own.

"Now you know," she muttered dully, staring at the forest floor.

"Now I know." I nodded slowly in agreement. The storm had let up, and the only sound was the slow dripping as the moisture slid off the leaves.

"That's why I have the nightmares, you see." Her tone was cool, nonchalant even. "They were really bad when I first got here. I don't think anyone slept for weeks. I've been getting better, though." She paused. "I'm so tired of being afraid," she confessed in a small voice. _Me too, Ann. Me too._ Slowly, she exhaled, until her breathing returned to normal. "Can we go home now?"

"Of course, dear." I helped her to her feet, averting my eyes as she adjusted her armor. "Whatever you like."

* * *

We didn't talk much on our way back to the Sanctuary, and once inside, we silently went our separate ways. I was deep in thought as I headed toward Vicente's quarters, my mind reeling from the discovery made that afternoon. My heart ached for my little sister, the girl who cooked and cleaned for us, who always had a smile and words of encouragement, who, in spite of her gentle nature, could take a life as mercilessly as the best of us. "Lily." Ocheeva appeared in the doorway of her quarters. "I would speak with you for a moment."

"Of course." I sat at the table that served as her desk as she slid in across from me, her eyes never leaving mine.

"There is a contract that must be completed," she began, and as she explained the details, I began shaking my head.

"No."

"You do not accept the contract, then?"

"Not exactly." I stood, and began pacing back and forth. "I only wonder if it could be completed in a…different manner."

"This plan has been put in place by the Listener himself. What did you have in mind?" By the time the entire Sanctuary had been gathered in the living quarters, I was practically glowing inside. Justice would be served for all, from our Dread Father himself all the way down to our smallest sister.


	20. Chapter 19: The Price of Obsession

**A/N: Another long overdue update. I've been working on this chapter for a long time, and I'm really excited to release it. I hope you all enjoy it, and so I'm just going to stop talking and let you read it now.**

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Chapter 19: The Price of Obsession

Adamus Phillida was living the easy life, and he hated every minute of it. On the first of Mid-Year, he had collected his final payment, shook hands with Chancellor Ocato, and then spent a night of heavy drinking with the men before travelling down to Leyawiin to begin his retirement. But his expectations had not quite met the reality he had found there.

His cousin Decentius was Captain of the Coast Guard, and he had expected that his "retirement" would consist of hunting down pirates and busting the occasionally smuggler. However, the Leyawiin Coast was quiet, and Decentius was no longer the robust, adventurous man he had been in his youth. He would have volunteered to help out the City Watch, but he was refused every time he offered. The guards here were standoffish, intimidated, perhaps by his fearsome reputation, and so his only company consisted of the addled Decentius and the young fool that had been assigned as his bodyguard. And as the weeks slipped past and crept into Sun's Height, Phillida found himself growing incredibly bored.

It was no surprise that he would dream of the Dark Brotherhood, but on one terribly humid night, the dreams took on a frighteningly new level of intensity. He managed to stifle a scream as he was torn from his sleep, but his heart only began to slow once he realized it was sweat he was dripping in, not blood. His bodyguard was still asleep, he noted as he glanced over at the young man's sleeping form. Exhaling, he fumbled through the dark for his shoes before slipping out the door, closing it softly behind him. He needed time to collect himself—time alone.

Out in the dark streets, he found it easier to breath. Though the air was still damp and oppressive, the sight of the stars calmed him somewhat, and he gradually began to put the dream out of his mind. He didn't know why it had disturbed him so, he mused, as he wandered the dividing line between the upscale and rough sections of town. Something about it had just been too vivid—tangible almost—as though it had been some sort of vision. He shuddered a little, feeling a cold sweat break out between his shoulder blades. He was about to turn and head back to the barracks when a piercing scream tore through the night.

Instantly, his mind switched into battle mode. He freed his trusty longsword from his side, sprinting in the direction of the scream. The street he turned down was deserted, but he advanced slowly, keeping his eyes and ears open. Hearing another cry, this one muffled, he spun sharply to his left, and there in an alley was the source.

A tall Argonian was struggling with a young woman. His hand was clamped firmly over her mouth, and Phillida saw a metallic flash near her neck. "Stop, you criminal scum!" he roared. Retired or not, the lines were habit. The thug's head snapped in his direction, and he instantly hurled the knife in Phillida's direction, throwing the woman to the ground and sprinting off in the opposite direction. Phillida attempted to give chase, but the woman was blocking his way. He made a move to push her out of the way, but then something hit him.

It blasted the back of his neck like a bucket of ice water, trickling down his back with a searing heat that faded into something else—something warm, something comforting. He vaguely registered that it had been a spell, and he turned in search of his assailant, only to face an empty street. He breathed a long sigh of relief, unsure what he had been worked up about in the first place. He turned back to the woman, and his breath hitched in his throat.

She was stunning. Not beautiful, not seductive, but somehow compelling, drawing him in. He would cross oceans for this woman, scale mountains, fight off armies. Something in the back of his mind warned him that these thoughts were madness, but he brushed it away. His throat felt thick, but he forced the words past it anyway. "Are you all right, ma'am?"

She turned her gaze up towards him, fixating on him with a pair of dark green eyes. "I…I think so," she whimpered. "I just needed some air, but then he…he was right there, and he had a knife, and…and…" She took a deep, shuddering breath that hinted at tears. Automatically, he moved to her side.

"It's all right, ma'am. You're safe now." Her face visibly relaxed, and she offered a tentative smile. "I'm Adamus Phillida, formerly of the Imperial Legion," he introduced himself, offering a hand. She took it with a genuine smile. He barely registered that her palm was surprisingly rough for a woman dressed in velvet, but the thought was squashed by the tremor he felt run through him at her touch.

"My name is Nevaeh. Thank you so much. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't happened along." She reached out, her fingers brushing along his arm, making his knees go slightly weak. He cleared his throat abruptly.

"You need to be careful, ma'am. This is a rough section of town. Thugs like him run rampant here," he stated firmly. Her face fell.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I know, it's dangerous to wander around an unfamiliar city, but I…I simply had to get out of there."

"You're new here, then?" he asked. She nodded.

"Yes. My…my father travelled here on business, and I came along. I've always wanted to see Cyrodiil."

"From outside the province, then?" He was mildly surprised. Her speech was unmistakably Cyrodiilic. "Valenwood?" he guessed. She nodded. "What business is your father in?" She looked slightly uncomfortable at the question, and he mentally chastised himself.

"He's an ambassador." She picked nervously at the sleeve of her gown. "Talk of a Khajiit uprising. He came to speak with the Count about solidifying borders." She clearly was uncomfortable, so he quickly changed the subject.

"My lady, it would be a pleasure to escort you back to…" He paused. "Three Sisters Inn?" She nodded.

"How did you guess?" she asked, a note of wonder in her tone. He laughed.

"Well, it is the finest inn in town. No other would do for a lady such as yourself." She blushed lightly at his words as he offered her his arm. She took it with a smile, and again, he felt a shudder run through him. He led her through the darkened streets, leaving his hand on the hilt of his sword as a gesture of bravado. In the Three Sisters' entryway, she paused, letting go of his arm and turning to face him.

"I can find my way back to my room from here," she said, glancing toward the stairway with just a hint of trepidation. He briefly wondered what sort of man her father was, to have that effect on her. "Thank you so much for everything. I really do appreciate it." With one last smile, she moved toward the stairs.

"Nevaeh, wait." She paused, turning back toward him.

"Yes?"

"I…" He paused, swallowing hard. "I would very much like to see you again." She smiled, and he saw the laughter in her eyes.

"As would I." She frowned. "You can't be here, though. My father—"

"We can meet elsewhere." He quickly cut her off. "I mean no disrespect, but…" She nodded slowly, considering. The silence stretched between them, but then she spoke.

"Meet me outside of the Mages Guild at noon." Then she turned and swept up the stairs. He returned to the barracks in a sort of daze, trying to process everything that had just happened. It was an odd situation, to be sure, but still, something was just _wrong _about it. He sighed as he entered his quarters. His bodyguard was still sprawled across his cot, completely unaware of all that had happened in the past two hours. As he settled into his bed, Phillida shook off the feeling of unease. Just a product of his imagination, brought on by a life of paranoia.

The next day, an hour before noon, he was seated on a bench across from the guild hall, casually skimming over a copy of the _Black Horse Courier._ As the hour wore on, he could feel himself becoming increasingly anxious. What it she didn't show up? What if she'd forgotten? What if she'd just been trying to get rid of him? He jumped as the chapel bells announced the time, and scanned the area, feeling discouraged. He was just folding up the paper when two figures appeared on the other side of the square.

He leaped to his feet as he recognized Nevaeh. She strode towards him—an odd gait for a lady—her dark skirts flowing around her and her hair glinting in the sunlight. She was accompanied by a petite blond girl, who kept her eyes securely on the ground. "My lady," he greeted, bowing deeply and kissing her hand.

"Captain Phillida," she returned, smiling up at him through thick dark lashes. She was just as stunning as she had been the night before, her fair skin practically glowing in the fierce light of the sun, but for some reason, he felt the unease creeping over him again, although he found himself unable to identify its source. He was certain, however, that he had never told her his rank. However, these troubling thoughts faded away when she spoke again. "Could…could we perhaps walk? My father is at the inn, and if he were to step out and see us…" Her voice trailed off, and he nodded.

"Certainly, my lady." He once again offered her his arm, and she rested her hand gracefully in the crook. They strolled out of sight of the Three Sisters, and once on a shady side street, Nevaeh seemed to relax.

"So Captain. How are you enjoying retirement?" He sighed deeply.

"It's fine, my lady."

"Really?" Her dark green eyes were full of suspicion, and he felt his resistance shatter.

"In truth, my lady," he admitted, "I'm miserable. This entire damned town practically sits on the edge of Oblivion itself. I hadn't expected to spend all my time baking in the sun, but that's all I ever do. This place changes folk, it changes them, I tell you. Take my cousin, for example. Practically brain-dead, that one." He stopped when he saw the expression on her face, vaguely aware that he had been shouting. "I apologize for getting carried away, my lady. I have been serving Cyrodiil for most of my life, and now to be doing absolutely nothing…it's maddening. Last night was the most excitement I've had in a long time." He snorted. "I'd almost welcome a visit from the damned Dark Brotherhood."

"They say when you murder someone, the Dark Brotherhood comes to you in your sleep. It's how they recruit new members." He turned in surprise as the maid, who had been trailing behind them, spoke for the first time.

"Marie! Be quiet!" Nevaeh snapped. Her face had gone white, and her eyes were narrowed in the girl's direction. Phillida, too, wheeled on her.

"Silence, girl! You are upsetting your mistress!" he boomed. The girl shrank back, tears welling up in her eyes. Nevaeh abruptly stopped, jaw dropping open slightly.

"Captain, don't speak to my maid in that way. You have no right." She stepped in front of the girl protectively, an emotion eerily similar to rage contorting her features. For the second time that day, he got the distinctive feeling that something was not quite right, but he forced himself to take a breath, effectively clearing his head. The cloud cover that had been rolling in helped also, a rare relief from the constant sun.

"I apologize, my lady. I merely did not wish for the girl to upset you." He ground his teeth slightly, bristling at being forced to apologize. He had meant well. Why couldn't she see that?

"I accept your apology, Captain," she replied, resting her hand back on his arm. But he could have sworn there was still a touch of anger emanating from her, and it put him on edge. They were in a poorer section of town now, not quite at the bottom rung of the social ladder, but low enough. A crowd of children ran past giggling madly, knocking into Nevaeh as they did so.

"Hey!" he shouted in protest, but they continued on without as much as a glance back in their direction. If he were in Legion garb they wouldn't be so brazen, he thought furiously. "Little scum!' he roared, but they had disappeared around a corner.

"Captain, it is honestly nothing to worry about," Nevaeh insisted. She was smiling now, all hints of anger gone. "They're just children."

"Never too early to learn respect," he grumbled.

"Are you from nobility, Captain?" she asked suddenly. He frowned, slightly taken aback.

"Well, yes," he said slowly. "My father was awarded his title in service to Pelagius IV."

"And what title was that?" she pressed.

"He was a knight." Phillida was starting to feel distinctly on edge.

"Then how could you get the title? I always thought knighthood was given on the basis of accomplishment." By now, he really was feeling defensive.

"Do you see that man over there?" He pointed out a man standing across the street dressed in the uniform of the Leyawiin City Guard. "That is my bodyguard. He's only been in the Legion for three years, and has done nothing to prove himself, so how did he get a posting of this priority? Because his father was a war hero in the days of the Imperial Simulacrum. The Legion _is_ nobility, my lady. We are guardians, therefore we are above the rabble. We are sworn to the service to the Emperor, to Tamriel herself. We are not bound by the same constraints as lesser men"

She had gone silent, and when he glanced over at her, she wore an odd expression, something he could not place a finger on. Again, he felt that all too familiar unease. He quickly changed the subject. "Do you ride, my lady? I have a horse I brought from the Imperial City. He's a former war horse, but he's retired now, same as me," he added with a chuckle. She brightened at this, and immediately launched into a story about her mare back home. He silently sighed his relief, somehow feeling that a crisis had been averted.

Over the next several weeks, he found himself spending more and more time with Nevaeh. His nightmares grew in both frequency and intensity, but his attraction to Nevaeh only grew stronger. She slowly came to occupy his every waking thought, and he found himself searching for every way possible to be near her. To his delight, she returned his affections, growing bolder in her efforts to dodge her father.

He found his contempt for the man growing, even though he had never met him. An ambassador of Valenwood—what a wretched place to represent. He'd been there before, sent in as part of a reinforcement garrison, and he had never been more miserable than in his time there. It was a never-ending forest with a tangled jungle of vines weaving the trees together, while clouds of gnats swarmed relentlessly. However, it was Nevaeh's home, he had to remind himself, lest he accidently let out a slur in front of her.

But despite everything, his need for the woman was starting to consume him. And one night, as they sat chatting in Three Sisters entryway, he finally admitted his need. Her eyes grew wide when he propositioned her, but she slowly nodded, although her eyes darted to the stairway, as though expecting her father to appear. She had then leaned in and whispered a few demands of her own.

That was how he found himself slashing his way through jungle on a rainy evening, making his way to the cave outside of town she had specified. _"My father knows about us. I know he knows. He hasn't said anything yet, but he will if he finds out about this,"_ she had declared. A dank, dirty cave was the last place he would have chosen for this, but so be it. He had given his bodyguard the slip an hour earlier, and as far as the boy was concerned, he was safely napping in his quarters, not to be disturbed. He entered the cave and made his way forward in the darkness, drawn toward a flickering light ahead.

The light, he determined as he entered the chamber, was caused by a plate of candles set on the edge of a blanket that had been spread across the floor, next to a bottle of Tamika's wine. Nevaeh, however, was nowhere to be seen.

"Ah, there you are, Phillida," her voice rang out suddenly. "I was beginning to think you weren't going to show." She emerged from the shadows dressed in commoner's clothing, her dark hair pulled into a simple ponytail rather than its usual elaborate style. She slowly advanced toward him, a simpering smile on her face.

"Of course I did, my love," he answered, slightly put off by her odd behavior. Since when did she address him by his last name, as though she were one of his peers—a _rude _one at that? He could play along, though, and he allowed himself to smile as she drew closer.

"I've been waiting for this for a _long _time," she purred, sinking to the blanket. "Come," she urged, patting the ground beside her. "Sit with me. Have a drink." She held up the wine bottle, and he was only too happy to oblige.

She poured the wine herself, again surprising him with the gesture. Her own glass, however, she left untouched, instead standing and wandering back across the cave. "Isn't it funny how we got here?" she asked, her shoulders heaving with a deep sigh.

"Is it?" He took another long sip of wine. Damn, it was good.

"I mean, who would have ever thought? The two of us?"

"I don't know." He gave up and tossed back the rest of the glass. She was behaving strangely, and it was putting him at ill ease. "It's not really so strange is it?" He quickly poured another glass. He seriously hoped she wasn't backing out, though with his luck, she probably was.

"Oh, I think it is." She turned around, and suddenly, he noticed how _old_ she looked. The tiredness in her face was something he hadn't noticed before. "It really is amazing, the way things come full circle. Isn't it, Ann?"

"Most certainly." He nearly leapt from his skin as the maid emerged from the shadows to stand beside Nevaeh.

"Marie?" he asked, startled. "What's she doing here?" Something suddenly struck him as strange. "Wait—what did you call her?" He made a move to get up, but as soon as he put weight on his right leg, it buckled beneath him, sending him sprawling across the cave floor. The wine glass shattered, slicing open his hand. He tried to prop himself on his arm, but that, too, gave out, and he crumpled to the ground. He lay still, staring up at the two figures across from him. "Nevaeh? What…what did you do to me?" The two slowly glanced at each other than burst into laughter.

"Ah, that will do. You've had your fun," a man's voice called out in a strange accent. He craned his neck, trying to see the source, but then a terrible tingling feeling overtook him, and he careened dangerously close to the edge of consciousness. When his mind cleared, he slowly lifted his head. Four figures stood staring down at him. The stranger whom, he realized with horror, he had been courting for the past month. The girl he had _thought_ was her maid. The vampire alone should have been enough to terrify him out of his wits, but it was the fourth face that made his blood run cold—the face of the man he had "rescued" Nevaeh from on the night he had that first nightmare.

"Nine Divines," he croaked hoarsely. The vampire offered a fanged smile.

"Oh, I'm afraid they won't help you now," he mocked.

He didn't know how he made it to his feet, but he was up and stumbling back through the cave. The floor abruptly slanted upward towards the entrance. How had he not noticed that? He was crawling up a rock face, clawing wildly with his arms, as his legs dangled uselessly. He was so close. He could see the edges of the door illuminated with every flash of lightning. His fingers brushed against the wood—and then a boot came down firmly, pinning his wrist to the ground. "Well, well, well. Not trying to escape our hospitality, are we?" The Argonian gave a savage grin.

It would have made sense for Phillida to be afraid of his life. It would have made sense for him to be angry that the Dark Brotherhood had caught up with him, or humiliated that they had managed to hoodwink him into falling right into their hands. But the thing that bothered him the most was the ease with which the Argonian slung him over his shoulder, as though he were a sack of flour, and strode back into the cave. He had spent his entire life training with weapons and wearing heavy armor, and retired or not, he still had a good bit of muscle bulk built up. The Argonian, however, was thin and wiry, and he looked as though a gust of wind could knock him over. But the man hauled him back through the cave without so much as a grunt of exertion, and roughly threw him down to the floor so that his head clunked off a stone and he saw stars.

"Teinaava! Easy does it. Lift him up." Nevaeh's voice rang out, and then he was upright, staring her right in the face. She grinned, holding up the now empty wine bottle. "Strength draining poison. Clever, no? I really outdid myself. Tasted just like the real thing, didn't it?"

"Bitch," was all he could manage. She smiled thinly.

"I know. I won't keep you, then. You have a very important appointment with the Dread Father."

"Your Dread Father can kiss my wrinkled arse," he snarled. "Is this how your "brotherhood" does business now? Skulking around in the shadows, relying on smoke and mirrors? Too afraid to face me head on?" She rolled her eyes.

"My dear Phillida, this is how we've _always_ done business. We _are _assassins, after all." She sighed. "It seems we forgot that, though. Sending our brothers and sisters to face you alone was a mistake, but we were too fixated on the pain you caused us to realize that. We had to learn to wait." An odd expression crossed her face, but it quickly cleared. "But the Brotherhood is not incapable of insight, and so here we stand. You are ours now." She smiled triumphantly.

"You're not going to get away with this," he growled, struggling feebly against the Argonian's grip. "I've served the Legion my entire life. I'm under their protection; they watch me constantly. My bodyguard—"

"Is back in the barracks, enjoying his dinner and his night off," she finished. "You've been avoiding him for the past month. Why should tonight be any different? In fact, knowing you, you probably ordered him to back off tonight." She smirked. "But don't worry. We'll take your body back them. Speaking of which, shall we get down to business? Ann, my dagger."

The girl—Marie, or Ann, or whatever her name was—produced the weapon, a sleek ebony piece with some sort of engraving along the blade. Nevaeh advanced toward him, taking hold of his hand with a strange air of elation. "This won't hurt much," she reassured, then gave a gleeful giggle. "Actually, who am I kidding? It'll hurt like a little bitch. But it will be over soon." And then he felt an intense pain as the dagger bit into the flesh of his ring finger.

Red flashed before his vision, and his head strained from side to side as he ground his teeth together, trying not to cry out. "Its name is Woe," Nevaeh called through his haze, and for a moment, the pain lessoned. "Fitting, no?" And then it returned full force, stronger than ever as she sawed through flesh, through muscle, through sinew. He had been wounded many times in battle, but never before had he experienced torture such as this. In spite of himself, he let out a strangled cry. Four sets of laughter echoed through the cave.

"We're loving this, can't you tell?" Nevaeh's green eyes swam before his vision, somehow darker than ever. She held up the dagger, running a finger along its crimson blade, and then flicking her blood-coated finger in his direction. He jerked as a droplet of his own blood hit him in the eye. "This little beauty right here was given to me as a gift from my Speaker, right after I joined the Brotherhood," she explained, gazing lovingly at the blade in her hand. "You, of all people, can attest to its effectiveness, but I wonder…can it cut through bone?" A malicious smile spread across her face, and before he could beg for mercy, the pain returned, worse than ever. It might have been ten seconds or it might have been a thousand years; either way, through the blur of sweat running into his eyes, he saw her holding up his finger, with the ring still attached.

"Oblivion take you, you treacherous whore." He barely recognized his own voice, as it tore free as a ragged scream. She smirked.

"Oh, you have no idea. Ann, would you care to finish us up?" The girl stepped forward holding a bow with an arrow nocked, trembling. Nevaeh stood behind her, hands on her shoulders. For a moment, her face softened, and Phillida felt a flash of recognition. "Easy does it. You're at a close range, so you can't miss. Just aim true, and the arrow will do the rest." He eyed the arrow with a sinking feeling, partially due to the expectation of what was about to come, but also due to the unique markings it bore. He understood that it would be left in place, marking his corpse as a Dark Brotherhood kill to any who saw it. He'd be damned if he let them have the satisfaction, but what could he do? His gaze returned to the girl, who took a deep, shuddering breath and stepped forward. His would-be killer looked up, and for the first time, he took note of the steel in her eyes.

"Do you remember me?" Her voice was soft as ever, but all sweetness was gone, replaced with an icy edge.

"I don't," he replied honestly. She chuckled, and he felt anger surge through him. Was that a requirement to be a damned assassin, to have an infuriating laugh?

"Of course you wouldn't." She stepped up to him, a sudden boldness in her stride, and leaned in close, her silky hair brushing his ear. "But in 430, in the Imperial Prison, you stopped outside my cell, where three of your thugs were violating me. And you did nothing." _Oh, shit_. He vaguely remembered the incident, but…

"Is that what this is about?" he snapped abruptly.

"In part." Nevaeh stepped up next to the girl. "It's for everything you've ever done to us. Everything you've done to anybody, really. Funny, isn't it, how those you trample on have a way of returning to you as enemies?" She smirked, and the recognition hit him full force.

"You!" he sputtered. "I knew it! You treacherous little assassin whore! You…it was you all along! And the Emperor…you killed the Emperor, didn't you? You…you…"

Nevaeh, however, seemed unfazed. "Enough of this. Ann, finish him," she ordered lazily. The blond nodded, taking several paces back and then lifting the bow and preparing to shoot. As he looked past her into the eyes of the girl he had imprisoned all those years ago, he saw something entirely unfamiliar. The sadness remained, but the fear had been replaced with something else: something dark and mad, boiling. Then a seizing pain caught him in the chest, and he knew no more.


	21. Chapter 20: A Dark Legacy

Chapter 20: A Dark Legacy

The moment stretched out and lengthened, lasting a lifetime and beyond. In my twenty years, I had experienced both joy and grief, but nothing compared to the exhilaration that claimed me as I watched the life drain from Adamus Phillida. The clatter of a bow dropping to the ground pulled me back into time, as did Ann's ragged gasp. "I did it," she said hoarsely. "I killed Adamus Phillida."

She turned to me, her eyes filled with a pure, unfiltered emotion. She was simultaneously terrified (after all, she had killed one of the most powerful men in Cyrodiil) and overjoyed (he had been one of her own personal demons). But behind it was something I understood all too well—the girl had just experienced her first taste of true power.

She flung herself toward me, clinging to me like a tiny monkey as Teinaava began to laugh. "Well," he stated, slowly applauding. "Good show, Sister." He immediately launched into a mocking impression. "Oh, Captain, thank you soooooo much for saving me. Oh, Captain, you really killed aaaaaall those savages _all by yourself_? Oh, Captain, all I want is for you to f—"

"_Teinaava!_" Luckily, Vicente intervened before the situation became too uncomfortable. Teinaava grinned impishly, and I glared at him over Ann's shoulder. Teinaava and I shared a similar sense of humor, and I had truly come to view him as my brother over the years, but he really did have horrible timing and absolutely no tact. Ann finally pulled away, and I saw that she was crying. Teinaava, too, saw this, and instantly sobered up.

"Sister!" he chided. "What are you crying for? You're a hero now! A Dark Brotherhood legend! Generations of assassins will remember your name! 'Let's drink to Antoinetta Marie!' they'll say. 'The Sister who crippled the Legion!'" Behind her back, I gave Teinaava a grateful smile. He responded with a wink as Ann hugged him as well. Although he had a knack for sticky situations, he had an equal talent for slipping out of them.

"I hardly crippled it," she mumbled against his breastplate. "He's retired."

"He's a legend," Teinaava corrected. "And if we can take him down, they will only imagine what else we can do. It's about sending a message." As Teinaava continued to reassure Ann, a cold hand came to rest on my shoulder.

"Bloodlust becomes you, Sister." Vicente's smile was cool as ever, but I could see the excitement crackling in his eyes. I could only guess at what feelings of triumph he was experiencing. Phillida had been my enemy for only three years, but Vicente had had to deal with him since the man's rise.

"Bloodlust?" I questioned with a smile, waggling the severed finger I still held at him.

"Indeed." He stepped up to my side, glancing across the cave to where Ann and Teinaava were completely wrapped up in their conversation. "Do you remember when you first came to us, and were so…confused by the notion of an enjoyable kill?"

"Of course." I began to gather the shards of the bottle Phillida had broken with his fall. The sooner we cleared out and got the finger planted the better; despite my bold words, Phillida was—had been—an important figure, and it would only be a matter of time before the Legion's finest began their search for him. "You told me to find my motivation for killing, and that everyone's are different."

"And what I told you was true." Vicente bent to help me fold the blanket. "You have used that to your advantage, and you have become a fine assassin." I went red, in spite of myself. As always, praise from Vicente was a rare thing indeed.

"Thank you," I managed. "But what does that have to do with Phillida?" Vicente leaned in closer, his voice low.

"Simple," he whispered. "There is a difference, is there not, between playing the avenger and leading a man to a terrible fate simply because you wish it to be so?" Before I could reply, Ann and Teinaava had wandered over. Whatever they had talked about, it seemed to have helped Ann. The tears were gone, and she was smiling.

"Let's get this body out of here," Teinaava declared, hoisting it up over his shoulder and striding towards the cave entrance. Vicente, however, stopped him.

"Allow me, Brother. I can move much faster, and my particular talents may come to be of use. I will catch up with you and the others on the road." Teinaava handed over the body with a brief nod.

"As you wish, Brother."

On the road a while later, Vicente caught up with us. Or rather, shocked us out of our wits when he suddenly materialized beside us. Ann actually let out a shriek and threw a punch at him, catching him in the abdomen. The vampire sighed.

"Antoinetta, one does not simply _hit_ a Brother. Particularly one of a higher rank." The girl huffed.

"Well, we don't all have your powers. You can't just _spring_ them on us like that."

"Really?" The vampire cocked an eyebrow at her. "Six years with us, and you are still ignorant of my abilities?"

"Hardly!" Ann snorted. "But you seem to be capable of a whole lot more than we thought. We've never seen you do all _this_ with them." Vicente rolled his eyes.

"Enough. The sun is coming up." That was sobering to all of us, and so we pressed on.

A few hours later, I sat next to Vicente in a cave, while Ann and Teinaava hunted. The vampire's eyes were closed, his aged face seeming even more drawn than usual by the light of a single candle. "I do not have bloodlust." His eyes sprung open at my words.

"Oh, I disagree, Sister," he refuted with a small chuckle.

"This was _Adamus Phillida_," I insisted. "And besides, I didn't even kill him." The vampire sighed, shaking his head.

"That is precisely the point I am making," he declared. "Yes, Adamus Phillida has caused us much grief, but he had retired. He no longer posed a threat. As Teinaava pointed out, this was about sending a message. He was killed over a grudge, nothing more."

"Yes, but it was still justice," I argued.

"Perhaps. But still, had you not dreamed of his demise? Even now, years after he had posed any personal threat to you?"

"Of course. This was Adamus Phillida!" I repeated. But that slow smirk spreading across his face warned me that I was losing this argument.

"And there, that impassioned battle cry. This was not a means to an end. This was not removing a threat. This was purely centered on rage. No, you did not kill him; but you did lead him into a death trap and torture him. I must say, Sister, never before had I seen such an expression of elation on your face."

He was right. I was silent, pondering over the memory of Phillida's blood soaking into my sleeves, the sheer panic in his eyes. I felt a knot form in my stomach as I recalled the fierce _joy_ I had felt in those moments. A sudden rage welled up in me.

"So what exactly are you saying, Vicente? What's the point you're trying to make here?"

"Only that I have high hopes for you, Lily. And that to achieve greatness requires absolute knowledge of self." He said this simply, calm in the face of my anger. Guilt took a stab at me, and I changed the subject without bothering to ponder his words.

"Well, I had help," I retorted. "I knew you had powers, but seeing them put to use like that…" I shook my head. "I don't even see why I was needed." I shuddered slightly, eliciting a small laugh from Vicente.

"Quite the contrary. Your role was absolutely necessary. His attachment to you was essential in order for him to believe that all of it was his own idea, or he would have realized that he was under a spell." I mulled this over

"Is that how it works, then? I know the plan was to have him come to us willingly, but couldn't you have just made him decide to wander out of town and end up in the cave?"

Vicente gave a long sigh. "The Vampire's Seduction, as it is called by scholars, is a tricky concept. Of course, all of a vampire's powers are considered somewhat of a mystery. They have very old, unknown origins, much like the powers granted to one by their birthsign. The Seduction is absolutely essential to a vampire's existence. It acts as a balance, to counteract the natural aversion other possess towards us. Therefore, it is tied to us directly. The attraction one under its power experiences towards us has long been thought to be related to perception, much like an illusion spell, but after what we have managed to accomplish here, it would seem this is not the case."

I frowned. "I'm confused."

"Look at it this way." He leaned forward. "You understand how an illusion spell works, yes? The magic plays on the mind, manipulating its natural methods of processing information—images, sounds, thoughts, emotions and the like. By altering the state of the mind, this may produce a subsequent behavior. But living creatures are unpredictable, and so illusion is one of the more complicated schools to master." I nodded, this much I had learned in my Chapel education. "But this is different. With illusion, we would have been limited in how we could influence him. Yes, we could have caused him to be restless or afraid, and driven him out of town that way. We could have caused him to experience positive emotions when he was near you, and hoped that would have been enough for you to have influence on him. But this power…" He gave another long sigh.

"This power is _all-consuming_. You occupied his every thought, sleeping and waking. He _needed_ you, as he needed air. In short, you came to define his entire existence. He would have done anything to keep your favor. Which, in a way, he did, as he walked straight to his death for you." Another of his famous dry laughs.

"How do you know that?"

"There has been some research on the subject. Limited, of course, as none who value their lives are particularly willing to work with vampires. But I know what I do because I have experienced it myself."

"You have? Really? When? Or how?" My barrage of questions did not deter him, as he stared straight ahead and answered simply.

"The vampire who turned me enjoyed playing with his food. And when I awoke, when I realized what had transpired…" He slowly turned his head and fixed me with his red stare. "Lily, let what I am about to tell you sate your thirst for revenge. Because I can assure you, the moment I broke the spell was the worst moment of his entire existence. In that moment, he suffered more than you did for all your time in prison. There is no worse feeling than realizing you have lost control of your very soul." His stare had gone through me, focused on another time and place, and I shuddered to think of what horrors could have such an effect on the great Vicente Valtieri.

"But what transpired here is revolutionary." He returned to the present and reengaged in our conversation. "For a vampire to use his powers through a conduit, as I did through you, has been unheard of until now. M'raaj-Dar will be absolutely delighted to hear this." I nodded, after I had suggested a combined effort to bring about Phillida's downfall, the vampire and the mage had worked tirelessly to find ways to utilize Vicente's unique talents. "Were he still a part of the Mage's Guild, he would have made a place in history books for himself, after such a breakthrough." I returned his faint smile, drawing patterns in the dust as I contemplated the tragedy of devoting one's self to the Brotherhood. I opened my mouth to ask a question that had been plaguing me, but Ann and Teinaava chose that moment to return, prompting me to keep my mouth shut, at least for the time being.

* * *

"Adamus Phillida Slain by the Dark Brotherhood!" screamed the headline of the latest Black Horse Courier. I snickered to myself as I sat in the hall outside Ocheeva's quarters, flipping through the wildly fabricated account of what had happened in Leyawiin. The new guard captain was quoted vowing to bring the Brotherhood down, but I had been out in the streets among the population, and I knew what the situation was really like. Highly concentrated guard presence, stricter patrols and frequent scuffles—the Legion was downright terrified and struggling to maintain order, while the Brotherhood was toasting a little blond girl with a nerve of steel.

"Lily, you may come in now." Ocheeva appeared in the doorway. I nodded, vaguely wondering what this was about as I set the newspaper aside. It had been several days since I had turned in my report, but this afternoon, she had summoned me to her quarters. I stepped through the doorway and froze.

There, along the wall, stood a very bored-looking Lucien Lachance, a stern M'raaj-Dar, and a solemn Teinaava. _"What in oblivion…?" _I wanted to ask, but the words froze in my mouth. "Sit down. Can I offer you some tea?"

"No, thank you," I replied as I obeyed, my gaze darting over to the others as she pulled the door shut. Her grim expression was setting me on edge, as was the others' presence. She sat down across from me, her hands folded on the table, and stared at me wordlessly. My stomach gave a little flip. This could not be good.

"Lily, I have received some information, and I would like to speak with you about it. I am going to ask you a question, and I demand an honest answer. Keep in mind that to give otherwise is to invoke the wrath of Sithis." I simply gaped at her. _What was going on?_ "Did you kill the Emperor?"

"_What!?_" I was out of my chair in an instant, slamming my fists down on the table. My heartbeat roared in my ears, and red swam before my vision.

"Sit down." He voice was like the crack of a whip as she, too, rose. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a light blossom in M'raaj-Dar's palm, and Teinaava's hand move towards his dagger. Lucien was out of my field of vision, but I could only that he, too, was arming himself.

"What in oblivion is happening here?" I roared. "Have you all gone mad?" I whirled on the others, only to find them unable to meet my gaze. Lucien rolled his eyes, which only served to infuriate me further.

"I said sit down. Answer the question." Ocheeva's voice was low and dangerous, her orange eyes burning into my own.

"No." I fiercely met her stare head on. "No, I did not kill the Emperor. But I would like to know why I am being asked this? And what's with the army?" I pointed in their direction, shooting them another glare. Only Teinaava had the grace to look ashamed.

"You are out of line, Sister. You have given your answer, and that is all that is needed. Please excuse yourself."

"No." I sat back in the chair, arms crossed defiantly across my chest. "No, I've been a loyal member of this Sanctuary for years. I fulfill all my contracts, I always obey orders, and I just brought down Adamus Phillida, damn it! You're the one who promoted me for it!"

"It was something Phillida said before he died, as mentioned in a report. Yes, we are killers, but the Septim line is Dragonborn, and starting a war with the Aedra is a serious matter. It's merely standard procedure, Lily. None of this is meant to be personal," Lucien spoke in a lazy tone. Something about it was oddly comforting, but my anger refused to die.

"Please tell me you're not serious. We drove him mad!" I snapped. "Ask Vicente. He said what we did to him was the worst…" Something suddenly clicked in my mind; a member of my family had betrayed me. Vicente had remained quiet for years, and Ann had been completely overwrought, which left only…

"Teinaava!" My shriek bounced off the stone walls. My favorite Brother quickly looked away from my accusing glare. "How could you!"

"Enough," Ocheeva interjected. "We had to ask, Lily. As Lucien said, it was standard procedure."

"Standard procedure?" I demanded. "You drag me in here, as though I were a criminal, and all of you stand there threatening me? While you accuse me of a crime I didn't commit? Of which, might I add, you have no proof? Unless you count the ramblings of your most hated enemy proof, this same enemy which I just brought down?"

"Do not forget it was Antoinetta who killed him," Ocheeva began, but I interrupted.

"Please. I did the hard part!" I spat. I shoved away from the table, knocking my chair to the floor as I did so. Before I exited the room, however, I turned on the Argonian. "Teinaava, you are a traitor, and I hate you. You can thank the Tenets for your sorry life," I growled. And then I stormed out.

* * *

The cool night air managed to ebb the anger flowing through me, and my breathing gradually returned to normal. I leaned back against the chimney, feeling more foolish than I had in a long while. In a matter of minutes, I had managed to defy my Speaker, belittle my sister, insult my brother, and come dangerously close to breaking the Tenets, all the while making a major fool of myself. I was so stupid.

"I come with an offering of peace." The voice came from my right, causing me to jump.

"Please, Vicente. Not now."

"Teinaava feels truly terrible about what happened." The vampire settled on the shingles next to me, leaning back against the chimney. "He thought Phillida's accusation was odd, but he certainly didn't think you had anything to do with the Emperor's death."

"You did." I refused to tear my gaze away from the sprawling view of the city. It was a beautiful summer night, faintly illuminated by the moons and dotted with glowing windows, filled with the wind whispering through the willows.

"No. The connection was a stretch, and I only discovered it after excessive digging through confidential records. It would take more than the rantings of a madman to unearth it."

"But why did you go looking for it in the first place?" I finally turned to face him.

"I was curious. You were painfully inexperienced, yet you came to us with quite the death toll. One could attribute that to a psychopathic mentality—that of one who acts without thought for consequence. But your actions with the child in Leyawiin spoke otherwise. I wondered what strange sort of destiny could compel the Night Mother to send you to us."

"Always with your silence," the vampire finally sighed, after several minutes have passed. "That was the first Lucien had told us of you. And then you came stumbling into my quarters, and to be quite honest, I had thought you quite mad."

As that memory surfaced, a small smile made its way to my face, and I began to quietly laugh. Vicente joined in, and the tension between us eased.

"For the record, Ocheeva overreacted. Her weakness has always been her stubbornness, and in turn her strict adherence to the rules. Lucien did not take this seriously, nor did M'raaj-Dar." He smirked a little at my wry expression. "He has warmed to you, you know. As he should. Besides, as of two days ago, we are three Executioners, three Assassins and two Eliminators strong, making us the most powerful Sanctuary in Cyrodiil."

"Really?" I could feel my face breaking out in a grin in spite of myself. "That's fantastic!"

"I agree." The vampire smiled a genuine smile, a rare sight indeed. I leaned against the stones of the chimney with a sigh.

"I'll apologize to Teinaava. I think _I _was the one who overreacted," I added dryly. "And Ann." I winced at the memory of my unkind words. My attempt to diminish her role in the mission had been downright cruel, especially seeing as she _had _been the one who killed him. Clearly, I was not nearly as noble as I imagined myself to be. However, Teinaava's betrayal, although unwitting, still stung.

"Good." Vicente nodded in approval. He gave a long sigh, and a pained look came over his face.

"Vicente? What's wrong?" The vampire did not reply, and I wondered if he had heard me. I was beginning to slightly panic, fearing my earlier tantrum was to blame, when he finally spoke.

"There are moments when you remind me very much of my daughter," he said. A ghost of a smile touched his lips, then disappeared.

"You have a daughter?" I frowned. This was the first I had ever heard of it.

"Had," he corrected. "Back home in High Rock, when I was but a mortal man." Another question began to form on my tongue, but he continued speaking. "I was a nobleman, very young, very foolish. Her mother was but a peasant, but we fancied ourselves in love, and so Cecile was born." He grimaced slightly. I recalled him making a similar assertion when he and I had discussed my own family all those years ago, and I inferred that there was more to the story.

"And?" I pressed. He sighed.

"I was young, and did I mention foolish? My daughter was the light of my life, but I grew tired of her mother, and so I abandoned them. I left Mathilde a disgraced woman with an illegitimate child to care for."

"I see." My tone was careful, but he saw right through my poorly disguised scorn.

"Hardly my proudest moment," he agreed, nodding. "When I saw my daughter again, sixteen years had passed. She was nearly twenty, and although I was the one who possessed a title, she was already far more noble than I could ever hope to be." His voice itself glowed with pride. "She was not happy to see me, however, although who could blame her?" he continued. "The life I had left her to had not been easy. But she said some things I did not want to hear, and so I said some things I regret to this day." He stared straight ahead at the shingles, raw emotion etched into his face.

"Did she ever forgive you?" I had never seen this side of him before, and it was slightly unnerving.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. The following week I left for Vvardenfell, and it was not long after that I met my dark fate. Cecile is long dead by now." His tone filled with sorrow, and I could only imagine what it would be to have lived with such guilt and grief for three hundred years.

"I do hope she did, though. In fact, I am sure of it. It was in her very nature. Did I mention her nobility? She, in a way, was also a creature of the night, although she possessed far different motives. She had taken to prowling the streets in the darkness, although her intent was to dissuade creatures such as ourselves." He chuckled. "She was tiny, no bigger than Antoinetta, but she carried an axe nearly as large as herself." He paused, apparently lost in memory, but then he spoke again. "Which reminds me, there is something I wished to speak with you about."

"You think I should start using a bigger weapon?" My hand moved protectively to the unnamed Ayleid shortsword that had scarcely left my side in the past three years.

"What?" He frowned. "No, it serves you well; why should you relinquish it?"

"Oh." I relaxed visibly.

"From the moment you arrived here, I took a particular interest in you. I admit, I did not expect much from you, but you have continued to exceed my expectation over the years. And so I believe that the time has come, if you so choose, for me to pass the Dark Gift along to you."

Again, his praise took me by surprise, but it was quickly replaced with a stunned silence. The vampire watched me curiously as I forced myself to speak. "Me…a vampire." I struggled to wrap my head around the concept. To surrender myself fully to the darkness? To never again see the sun? To be cut off from men and mer alike? Worst of all, to once again be forced to drink blood? The idea was unfathomable. My mind swept to Valenwood of its own accord, and the metallic taste once again dripped down my throat. But then I thought of Adamus Phillida, blindly following me straight to his grave. I abruptly turned to Vicente.

"But what about the blood? Vicente, I can't drink it again. I really can't." He gave a long laugh.

"You will find nothing else in this world appeals to you more. You can, of course, choose not to drink. In fact, it will increase your powers. But these powers come at the cost of need, the need to hunt, to kill, to feed. This need becomes stronger as time passes, and it will eventually come to consume you. To drink sates this need, and you will also find that the sun becomes bearable, and you may even walk among your peers unnoticed."

"So I have some choice?" My voice was barely a whisper. Vicente's red eyes were as sharp as ever.

"Dearest Lily, you always have a choice. And to be a vampire is to experience a state of absolute clarity." He leaned in closer. "I know you struggle with doubt, and you are plagued by fear. To become one of us is to erase both. No longer will you have to question the Brotherhood, or fear your role in it. Join us, and the answers will be made clear." And was that not what I had been seeking for so long? To serve as an instrument of justice or of balance or even of both was hardly an explanation, and by no means could ever grant me absolution. To kill to appease my own bloodlust, however, was pure madness. But I truthfully wasn't sure why I killed anymore. What made one evil? Was _I_ evil? The earnest calm in my mentor's eyes was reassuring, and I felt myself nodding.

"I'll do it."

* * *

An hour later, I was reclined on my bed, while Vicente waited next to me. "Here." I took the proffered cup and downed M'raaj-Dar's famous sleeping draught in a single gulp. "Three days," Vicente promised. "I will wait until you are asleep, and when you awaken, you will be a vampire. Quick and painless." The potion was already doing its job, and Vicente's voice was reaching me through a deep fog. Oblivion was reaching for me, but this time, it was not unwelcome. I thought of Vicente's promise of finding peace at last, and I welcomed the fog with open arms.


	22. Chapter 21: Creature of the Night Part 1

**A/N: Hello! I am back, and this story lives. Usually if I don't update for a while, I've been too busy to work on this, but I actually have been working on this chunk of the story for the past six months. We have a major transition coming up, and figuring out just _how_ to make said transition has been a struggle. Our girl's come a long way, but now it's time for her to grow up for real. So bear with me for these next few chapters. They're going to be rough, and more than a little odd.**

* * *

Chapter 21: Creature of the Night

Part 1: Echoes of the Past

I dashed across the clearing as a child's voice called out, counting. It was a beautiful summer afternoon, and Liethl had come over to play, along with a friend of Enilroth's, some boy whose name I could never remember. "Ready or not, here I come!" Liethl shrilled, and I quickly ducked through the slightly-ajar door of the barn, sliding the door shut behind me. I quickly hauled myself onto a stack of hay bales and dropped behind it, settling into a crouch. They'd never find me. I smiled to myself. But time wore on, and I began to grow bored. It was dark in the barn, my legs were beginning to cramp, and I could have sworn I'd seen a spider go scuttling behind a beam. Besides, there was an uncomfortable scent in the air hiding just beneath the hay, a dark, sickly smell. I began to move deeper into the barn, weaving through the maze of hay bales. As I felt through the semi-darkness, my foot struck something solid, and I nearly tripped. I glanced down, and instantly went numb. Nedhel and Hasathil were sprawled there, their skin gone dark and mottled, slowly dripping from their bones. Where their throats had been were now dark, gaping holes. I tried to scream, to call out for Liethl, for Enilroth, for that odd boy whose name I didn't know, even—but my throat was thick and no sound escaped. As I stood frozen, Nedhel's arm twitched. His body suddenly rose and stood before me, along with Hasathil's. The scream was finally released as they reached for me and pulled me in.

* * *

_"Ah, that face! Yes, don't drink when you don't need it. You will experience a more…typical reaction. But when you were thirsty, it was different, was it not? Of course it was, I watched the fire in your eyes as you drained that poor bastard. And even now you have no guilt, hmm? Quite liberating, is it not? He had lived past his prime; he was merely waiting to be released. And in his death, he has sustained you. There is something rather noble in that, no?_

_Take a look at your reflection now. Yes, that is only a myth. You could pass for human right now. What? Ah, yes, I understand it can be quite…unsettling at first. The angles, the crevices, the tightening of the skin…all very unusual. How odd it is to see your true face for the first time. I had nearly forgotten. Your eyes have gone dark too, do you see? Very different from my own, as I have not fed in days. But I am clearly a vampire, whereas you simply look a bit ill. You could pass for human right now. Just keep a hood on, and you can walk about freely. In about a day, the thirst will begin again. And keep in mind, at that point the sun will begin to burn._

_Ah, Sister, welcome to the night. You truly are like a dark gift from the Night Mother herself. For although I lost her before, I once again have a daughter."_

* * *

Bosmer cried for blood when the Imperials cut down the trees to make room for croplands, but it had never mattered that much to me. Besides, this one had been abandoned long ago. The trees had crept back up to its edges, slowly dipping their roots back into the pale empty surface. And now, as the sun sunk low in the sky, the entire field was lit up as though it were made of molten gold. Turning my head slightly to the side, I could see strands of my hair spilled around my head, glowing as though made of flame. I closed my eyes against the glare, although my eyelids themselves appeared to be made of light as the sun persisted. No matter though. I felt the edges of my mouth curl up in a smile. The heat was harsh against my face, but I was so warm, my entire body feeling lazy and relaxed, despite what remained of the cornstalks poking into my spine. My nose suddenly twitched, and when I sneezed, the dank oppressiveness of the cave I had taken refuge from the sun in came rushing back to meet me. No beams of sunlight were protruding through the wooden cover. I sighed and scrambled to my feet, dislodging a rock from under my back in the process, and continued on towards Skingrad.

* * *

_Sister! Contain yourself! Sit. Here. Take the bottle. Drink. Slowly now. There. Take another. No, drink the whole thing. I can not and will not risk you tearing the Sanctuary apart. Think of your Brothers and Sisters, hmm? Would you so readily break the Tenets?_

_You must be more careful, Sister. The power has an effect on _you_ as well. You are too new to rein it in fully. I am older and wiser, therefore I know myself and my limits. You are just learning. You can not embrace the power fully, it will instead embrace you._

_For the time being, I want you to go no more than two days without drinking. Explore the power. Test it. Learn your limits. When you can control it, then you can expand upon it._

_Come now, no sulking. You did no harm. You pushed yourself too far too soon, but you will not do so again, hmm? You should learn to bottle blood as well; it may save you from doing something foolish in a moment of weakness, as it did today. And remember to learn your limits. You are powerful, not invincible._

* * *

It slowly dawned on me that I had been afraid, once. But I could not imagine of what. Whatever it had been, it was gone now. And I wasn't entirely sure it had ever existed. There was a cool numbness spreading through me, my mind slightly fuzzy as though I'd had a few ales. I could lie here forever. My eyelids slipped open at the sound, which I quickly attributed to the murmur of voices. Robed figures surrounded me, completely motionless, but those whispers continued. One of them stepped forward, and I suddenly felt the tiniest prickle of fear. Slowly, his hands moved towards his hood, lifting it from shadowing his face. And I tried to scream, but my voice was utterly gone. He wore a smile, the same smile that used to appear sometimes when Enilroth and I would greet him at the door. The smile he had worn when I successfully snared my first squirrel. The smile that had only occurred in later days when he would arrive home drunk, cursing the Empire and speaking of Bosmer glory. But the eyes belonged to the soulless madman who had beaten his wife and prepared his own daughter for sacrifice, bottomless pools of black. He held his knife loosely, casually; the same knife that had once been positioned above my heart. Searing pain shot through me as it sliced through my flesh, carving it away, exposing muscle, organs, bone… And the blood, oh, the blood… I hadn't known vampires could cry, but my eyes were wet when I awoke.

* * *

_M'aiq knows much, tells some. M'aiq knows many things others do not. M'aiq once sat in a tavern, and saw a girl there. He said to himself, "One day this girl will want M'aiq's blood." M'aiq sees the girl's face in this vampire, but he has no blood to spare. But M'aiq does not fear the vampire. It knows it has no need for poor wanderers._

* * *

I stumbled through the desert air, which had grown cold with the night. I had been out here for days, and my body was crying for blood. Why, though? Had I developed a taste for it in the previous months? I came upon a small pool, falling to my knees at its edge. I leaned towards it, only to discover that it was not water, but blood. Warm, fresh blood. I eagerly lowered my head to drink, but my lips would not open. Frowning, I lifted my hands to my mouth. To my horror, my lips had been sewn shut. Before I could begin to panic, something shot from the pool without warning. A pair of cold, white hands grabbed hold of me and dragged me under—but not before I caught a glimpse of pitch-black eyes.


	23. Chapter 21: Creature of the Night Part 2

Part II: Distortions of the Present

She was nightmare-free for once. I paused as I passed her bed, smiling a little to see her sleeping peacefully. A gaunt, shrouded figure emerged from out in the hall, and approached her bed. I frowned. Who was that? Telaendril? I couldn't see the face. I stood in the shadows, frozen in horror, as the figure leaned down and sunk its fangs into Antoinetta's pale exposed neck. A few moments later, the figure rose, blood dripping down her chin. My stomach folded over on itself as the color flowed back into the vampire's face, and her features began to fill out. It was my own face. The scream tore loose from my throat of its own accord.

* * *

_"I drained him for you, Sister. Here. Take the bottles. I drained him as best as I could, although my circumstances were hardly ideal. It was out in the marshes, and I did not have the proper equipment. The ancient Nord technique is best, but alas, I did not bring my tools along with me. No, do not ask how I came by that knowledge. As a young man, I traveled extensively, and picked up much unusual knowledge along the way._

_No, never necromancy! I have no interest in raising the dead, and magic is not my strong suit, as you very well know. You have often teased me mercilessly on the subject._

_I drained my target for you. I hung him by his feet from a tree, and filled spare potion bottles from a wound I made in his throat. I only wished to provide you with some sustenance. Vicente himself has bottled blood from time to time, and I thought perhaps you may someday be on a contract and have no opportunity to feed._

_No, I do not fear your powers. Only your madness."_

* * *

The Sanctuary table threatened to buckle beneath the feast spread out upon it. Food. Real food. My stomach began to growl, and my face split into a smile. I was hungry for real food, something that hadn't happened since before I became a vampire. I sat down and eagerly speared a chunk of brisket with my fork. I hadn't touched meat since those horrible days in Valenwood, but this was roasted to perfection, and my mouth watered at the aroma. I worked my way through it, chewing happily until I glanced down at the last piece. Something white was lodged in it. I frowned, flipping it over and— oh gods. It was filled with squirming larvae. I gasped as I began to gag at the horrible realization of what I had just eaten. But it wasn't just the thought of it, I realized miserably as I began to cough. There was an intense pain in my belly, and my hand came away from my mouth bloody. They were eating their way out of my stomach.

* * *

_"Your hair is so much shinier after you drink. I wish you'd wear it down more often. Or at least let me braid it for you! Remember that contract you had that time in Skingrad? The one at that party? I know I'm bragging, but I did a really good job on your hair. I should have done it that way in Leyawiin, but the humidity would have ruined it. I know there's a whole market among rich ladies for potions for their hair, but some of that stuff is—_

_Oh. Thank you. And there he is. I've gotten better about that! Honestly, I have. How could I not, when he SLAMS THAT DOOR EVERY TIME! Yes, I most certainly _am_ talking to you, Gogron! Really, though, it doesn't always startle me that much anymore._

_What's it like, though? Being able to _hear_ and _smell _like that? It would scare me to death, I know that much. Too much…information. Constant information. That's how I imagine it, at least. You say it feels natural, but I would never want that. I'm glad you're happy with it though._

_Why not? You have the powers. And you said you see things how they are, that it was what you'd always wanted._

_Oh, don't be silly. You're not mad. Anyone can see it. And you're not a monster! Honestly, you must be the only person in the world who would feel guilty that she doesn't feel guilty. You know, don't worry about having shiny hair. You should just never drink again. You're so much more entertaining with all that confrontational rage. The way you almost tore Teinaava's head off the other day? Ha!_

_No, it wasn't like that! It was more funny than anything. You didn't scare me. Honestly, Lily. Leave the brooding to me. It doesn't suit you one bit."_

* * *

The spring breeze was warm upon my face as I stood at the lip of the cliff, staring at the endless, wrinkling expanse of the Abbeccan below. It was normally grey, although today, it appeared almost blue. The breeze was beginning to tickle, and I went to brush it away in annoyance, but I was stopped short by the fact that I could not move my arms. My eyes quickly jerked downward, and to my horror, I discovered that my skin had been transformed into glass, brittle and green. My breath came in quick, shallow gulps, as I somehow knew that if I dared to move, even in the slightest, I would shatter into a thousand pieces. The breeze continued, the tickle worsening, and I felt a sneeze beginning. No. No, I couldn't let it… My skin shattered, and I started awake, soaked in sweat.

* * *

_I wanted to congratulate you, Sister, on your efficiency during your last contract. I am aware that things went awry, but you handled yourself with courage and cunning._

_Yes, I understand the merits of your…gifts. I will admit, they serve you well. But you should be aware that they come with a price._

_No, that is not what I meant. Understand, Lily, you have captured the attention of the Black Hand. You have risen quickly through our rank—in fact, I can only name two or three others who have done so quicker. And you have earned every honor. I understand that your powers have made you a better assassin, but there is more to life in the Dark Brotherhood than that._

_You could have been a leader. You may have one day taken my job, and become mistress of this Sanctuary yourself. Perhaps you would have even one day joined the Black Hand. But as a _vampire_...this would never be allowed. You would be a great risk in such a position, and in our line of work, risk is something that must be reduced, not multiplied._

_I am glad you stand by your choices. Forgive me if I seem disapproving. But I can not help but wonder: what might have been?_

* * *

The sky was the most brilliant blue I had ever seen. And the sun was blinding, but I felt cool, even slightly damp. It was rather refreshing, really. I tried to draw in a breath, but I began to cough instead, expelling dirt from my lungs. I frowned as I tasted blood. I again attempted to breathe, but a shovel suddenly appeared in my vision, and more dirt showered down on me. The light grew dimmer as I frantically tried to thrash my limbs about, but I was too weak. Screaming was also to no avail, as another shovel full of dirt was emptied into my mouth, muffling the faint sound.


	24. Chapter 21: Creature of the Night Part 3

Part III: Visions of the Future

Vicente stood waiting for me, hands clasped behind his back, eyes narrowed. The rest of the Sanctuary was clustered in the room, all of them transformed into vampires as well. Their eyes carefully followed my every move, and I began to feel slightly nervous. The Order of the Virtuous Blood, they had called themselves, a cult dedicated to slaying vampires. _"Wipe them out,"_ Vicente had ordered, and I had done just that. But my smile froze as I stood before him, and I suddenly remembered. I had hunted them down. I had confronted them. But I had not killed them. "I have never been more disappointed." Vicente's face was distorted with hatred, and a wave of weakness hit me as I realized all my powers had instantly left me. Tension mounted. And then my Brothers and Sister sprung on me, carving into me with their weapons. I would have cried out, but Vicente's fangs had torn out my throat.

* * *

_"Nightmares are normal. We all suffer from them. Power comes at a cost, and for one such as ours, the price is high. But never have I heard of a vampire seeing the future. In fact, such a concept goes against our very nature. We are grounded in the here and now. The hunt is what matters, not vague whispers of what may or may not be._

_I would not think on it too much. Remember, I, too, have experienced such dreams. I understand their…tangible nature. But they are just that—dreams. Yes, they are unsettling, and even terrifying, but if they serve a purpose, it is to remind us of our weaknesses—although we have great power, we are not invincible. Not to dictate to us the terms of our futures. Think no more on this. You will only drive yourself mad."_

* * *

It had been a mistake to go charging out the door like that. My face had suffered some damage, but my hands were in an absolutely useless state, charred and shriveled into claws. So I had begrudgingly sat down and allowed the witch to apply a salve to them. It was sunset. Just a few more minutes until I could make my escape. The woman was mad, but in a few minutes I would disappear into the night Besides, was she actually dangerous? I felt the magic coursing through the damaged tissue, and the pain began to subside. I glanced down, expecting to see them smooth and whole again, but to my horror, the flesh was bubbling. Before my eyes, it began to crack and split. I frantically glanced up at the witch, but she only smiled as chunks of flesh began to fall to the floor of her hut. Half the Sanctuary was awaked by my ear-splitting screech.

* * *

_"I have done some thinking on the matter since we last spoke. I have also done some reading, and I am afraid what I told you is not entirely true. There are records of a vampire lord early in the second era who made some fairly accurate predictions. So yes, it _is _possible for a vampire to see the future—unlikely and incredibly rare, but possible._

_Also, I do worry about your connection to a certain war we spoke of once. Do not make that face, this must be addressed. The anniversary of the Emperor's death approaches, and it is common knowledge that Uriel Septim gained uncanny insight through his dreams. The Dragonfires grow dimmer with each passing day, and there are whispers among scholars that they may go out entirely. And although it is rumored to be simply myth, there are also those who claim that should they die entirely, we would be facing an invasion from Oblivion._

_I do not know if it is possible. I have never studied the Daedra in great detail. But what I do know I have shared with you: the Aedra and Daedra are all-powerful and engaged in a great war. And we have all felt the shift in our world since the Emperor's death._

_I am not saying you should do anything. I can not advise you on this. You must do as you feel is right. No more. No less._

* * *

The streets of Chorrol were strangely deserted as I approached Northern Goods and Trade, where Dar-Ma waited outside for me, clutching a bundle to her chest. A tiny face peeked out of the top. A baby? She'd had a baby? I grinned, calling out to her as I strode forward. I lifted a hand in greeting, but she made no move to respond. But as I reached the porch, I froze. She was dead. A shriveled, decomposing corpse propped against the side of the building. My gaze flashed to the infant, which was still alive, but barely. Its barely-formed scales were grey tinged with purple, and its swollen face threatened to swallow its glazed-over eyes. A dry breeze swept through the town, and without warning, they both exploded into dust. I shrieked, clawing frantically at the air for a few moments before collapsing back onto my bed, soaked in sweat.


	25. Chapter 22: The Lie

Chapter 22: The Lie

If my heart could beat, it would have torn straight out of my chest. I slumped back down on my bed, staring at the stone ceiling as I waited for the terror to pass. Swallowing hard despite my burning throat, I kicked away my sweat-soaked blankets. I understood only too well why Vicente preferred to sleep on a stone slab; blankets, which had once brought warmth and comfort, were now unnecessary and an annoyance.

The nightmares were becoming unbearable. At first, I had merely relived my past in my sleep—uncomfortable and far more tangible than when I was human—but nothing I hadn't experienced before. Vicente said this was normal; all vampires suffered in this way. And then they grew slightly more unsettling when my everyday experiences were distorted to the point where half the time I wasn't sure when I was awake and when I was sleeping. But in the past couple weeks, they had taken the turn for the sinister. I saw terrible events unfolding—events that I somehow _knew_ would eventually come to pass. I was afraid I was going mad. Vicente had merely brushed away my concerns, but somehow that had been comforting—especially seeing that yesterday, he had approached me and admitted that there may be some validity to these visions. And the object buried in my chest for the past three years was heavy on my mind.

Three years. Three years ago, I had been in prison. I had been lying on a dirt floor trading insults with a broken old man. I hadn't been able to comprehend what my life had come to. If only I could have seen what I would be now. At that thought, I snorted, suddenly feeling better. Oh, life was a funny thing. I stood, tossing aside the tattered shirt I slept in and suiting up in my armor. Over the past few years, I had broken it in to the point where it felt as natural as my own skin, stretching perfectly with my movements. I still felt unsettled from the dream, and I wanted to release some aggression in the training room before I headed out to hunt. I had fed the day before, but a sense of foreboding made me uneasy to give my darker side any more leeway than necessary.

I had grown stronger over the years, but my advantage still lie in being quick and light. However, my vampirism had come with an increased strength, and I had been working with Gogron to learn how to use an axe. It was unwieldy in my hands, as my frame struggled to support it and the motions were unfamiliar, but I was getting better. I had only been working for a few minutes before Ann entered the room. "Delivery for you, Sister." There was small twist of confusion to her features, and I mimicked the expression as I took the parchment. Assassins never received direct communication from the outside world. Contracts were delivered through Sanctuary leaders, and our eyes and ears were perfectly capable of finding out anything else we needed to know.

My confusion quickly switched to suspicion as I caught sight of the black wax seal with a handprint stamped into it. This was from the _Black Hand._ What on Nirn could they want with me? Ocheeva had once said that they had taken in interest in me, but my vampirism had invalidated that. I tentatively cracked the seal, unfolding the crisply creased parchment.

_Eliminator,_

_You have served the Dark Brotherhood well in the short time you have been with us. Indeed the rate of your advancement has been rather remarkable. Now, the Black Hand itself is in need of your abilities._

_You must proceed with all haste to my private refuge in the ruins of Fort Farragut, located in the forest northeast of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary. When you arrive, we will discuss the nature of your special assignment._

_I cannot stress to you enough the importance of your swift arrival at Fort Farragut. There are unseen powers working to unravel the very fabric of the Dark Brotherhood. The Black Hand is counting on you to prevent this disaster. _

_Do not share the contents of this message with anyone at the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, including Ocheeva, and make no mention of your journey to Fort Farragut. Also be warned—my refuge within Fort Farragut is guarded by denizens who will attack any interloper on sight. Get through these rotting sentinels, and you will have earned the right to visit my private sanctum._

_Lucien Lachance_

"What does it say?" I immediately let out an inward curse at Ann's question. I sighed.

"No one is supposed to know this, but the Black Hand had asked me to travel to the Anvil Sanctuary to work with new members. Apparently, they had some young recruits." I shrugged. "But given my _condition _they have revoked their request." Moments like these were always painful. To disobey a direct order from a superior was to break the Tenets. To break the Tenets was to invoke the wrath of Sithis. Lucien had ordered me to keep silent about the task I had been charged with, so I had no choice but to lie. But with my body still full of blood, it was troubling how easy it was to lie to my little sister.

"I'm sorry." Ann's expression twisted from confusion to sympathy. "They're ridiculous. You know how to control yourself, and you would have been great for those recruits. I feel like you would have been able to teach them a lot." Oh, there it was. The guilt turned over on itself in my stomach, the moment of pure emotion startling.

"Thank you, Ann." I touched her shoulder. "I wouldn't have wanted to leave my Family here, anyway." She nodded with a brief smile, then stepped away, her silvery hair disappearing through the door.

It was Last Seed, and the sun wouldn't set for a few more hours. I would only take minor damage if I left now, but if I would be in for a fight once I got there, I wasn't about to intentionally weaken myself. So I was left to my axe and the mystery that was Lucien Lachance.

He was a showman—that much had been clear from the night I had been recruited. With the hood, the cryptic speech and the chameleon spell, he had put on quite a performance that made a distinct impression. But he was also brilliant—that I had learned from comments Vicente had made over the years. He had risen through the ranks of the Brotherhood quickly, and according to my dark mentor, was one of the best Speakers the Cheydinhal Sanctuary had ever seen. And I knew, from the incident after Phillida's assassination, that he had a remarkable sense of clarity. He had seen the situation as it was, not just as it appeared to be—a gift that had taken vampire blood for it to be instilled in me, he possessed naturally. But beyond his sinister façade, I strongly suspected that the Speaker had a good heart.

For who went out of their way to comfort a frightened refugee child? Very few people to begin with, much less assassins. At thirteen, I had been more unsettled than reassured by his attempts, and even more so once I discovered his true identity. But he had meant well. I saw that now, given some of my experiences on contracts over the  
years. The little boy in Leyawiin…the skooma addict's young mistress…even Ann, for crying out loud—there was value in life just as there was value in death. The kill was power, glory, madness, joy…but life was all these things as well. The cycle was completely dependent on itself. And perhaps it was possession that knowledge that made Lucien Lachance.

But for now, I had his frantic message to worry about. Something was coming, and my sense of foreboding grew more tangible with each passing minute. The hands of the clock above the doorway showed quarter of seven. I sighed, placing the axe back on the rack. The sun be damned. I would drive myself mad if I waited any longer.

I had caught sight of Fort Farragut many times over the years, but I had never actually approached it until now. I unwrapped the scarf from around my face as I entered the courtyard, my sword arm prepared to snatch my weapon free. The sun had all but disappeared, the meager light blocked by the imposing stone walls, but I was quick to enter the fort nevertheless, breathing a sigh of relief as the uncomfortable burning sensation faded, faint as it was.

The first skeleton clattered out of the shadows, but I cut it down easily. The second one, however, brandished a bow, and one of its arrows managed to nick my armor before I reached it. And so it went. I had delved into many dungeons before, and I knew well enough that sometimes it went well and sometimes it didn't. But when I narrowly avoided a falling rock trap, I had to lean up against a wall for support as my knees began to quiver, threatening to give out. This wasn't _right._ There was nothing right about this. I felt an urge to whirl around and dash straight out of the fort, but I grimly pulled myself up and pushed forward. The Speaker had summoned me. I was going to fulfill this. I was just being ridiculous. But the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach grew.

I rounded a corner and saw a portcullis. And beyond it, a spacious, well lit chamber. So this was it then. I could feel a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. By Sithis, what was _wrong_ with me?

Lucien stood with his back to me, hunched over what appeared to be an alchemy workstation. He wore his hood, even underground. When he turned to face me, the torches cast jagged shadows across what was visible of his face, disguising his expression. "You've arrived." His voice was flat, and I suddenly started to feel scared. His tone was often drawling, lazy…but never _empty._ I swallowed hard.

"Speaker." It came out hoarse. "You sent for me."

"Indeed." He clicked shut a lock on a barrel behind him, then stepped toward me slowly. "The Black Hand has need of your services."

"Your letter told me as much." The words snapped free, my mental filters gone along with my nerves. His eyebrows slowly rose, the first hint of emotion he had shown thus far.

"Whatever happened to your silence?" he asked blankly. Had I been human, my face would have flamed as I recalled our last meeting. But he was speaking again before I could respond. "The Brotherhood has been infiltrated. You have, no doubt, heard the rumors. But now, it would seem, there is truth to them."

The sick feeling multiplied, growing tentacles that snaked up around my spine. Trust, ironically enough, was an essential part of life in the Brotherhood. We were family in every sense of the word, as ludicrous as it had sounded when I had first joined. As cut off as we were from the outside world, we had only each other to depend on. To betray such a trust was sacrilege. But the most prevalent thought pounding through my mind was, _Why didn't I see this? Why didn't _Vicente _see this? _But Lucien was still speaking. "And this traitor has been linked to the Cheydinhal Sanctuary."

And like that, the sickness was gone, immediately replaced by a chilling numbness. "No." The slight twitch in Lucien's face told me I had spoken out loud. "No," I repeated, more sure of myself this time. The numbness was giving way to slow, burning anger. "This is my _family_ you're talking about. I _know_ them. None of them is a traitor."

"The information we have received in irrefutable." His speech was slow, calculated.

"You're wrong, Lachance." My own words came forth so sinister I nearly started. Even Lucien looked slightly taken aback for a moment, but regained his footing so fast I may have only imagined it.

"You may choose not to believe it, but that will not change the facts." His voice was sharp, eyes narrow. "There is a traitor within the Brotherhood who is working out of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary. We do not know how long he or she has been active, but it has been at least five years—longer than you have been with us. And that is why I have summoned you here today." The sickness was back, boiling together with the anger and quickly tempering into pure rage. Through the haze, I saw a slight twist to his face. "Since you alone have escaped suspicion, the Black Hand has selected you to perform an ancient rite." And I knew, right then, that whatever he said next would shatter my whole world.

"The Sanctuary must be purified. Ocheeva. Vicente Valtieri. Telaendril. Teinaava. M'raaj Dar. Gogron gro-Bolmog." He swallowed hard. "Antoinetta Marie." His voice had gone faint. "All of them must die."

Cold. All I felt was cold. Oh, Lucien, unsay what you just spoke. You bastard.

"Lily." I jumped at the sound of my name. "Do you understand your orders?" How could he sound so damned _cold_? My head slowly moved from side to side of its own accord.

"I'm not going to do that." It was wrenched free as a whisper.

"You. Won't. Do that." His voice was mocking as he repeated my words. Shut up. Shut up, you bastard. "This is a direct order from a superior. Not just a superior but the_ Black Hand itself._" He was practically growling. "To disobey is to invoke the wrath of Sithis." His hand snapped up and caught the Blade of Woe as I whipped it at his head. "_Lily!"_ he roared as I dashed back the way I'd came, weaving through the tunnels with the speed only a creature of the night can possess. The night embraced me as I broke free, but I didn't stop. _Can't stop won't stop. _I sprinted along the lonely forest road, through the city gates, behind the row of houses, and dove straight down the well.

The Sanctuary. My home. My speed sucked dry, I drifted through the halls like a phantom. How could I possibly be expected to unmake what was built here? How could I destroy the one thing I loved? "Lily?" Vicente rose from his desk, concern etched deep into his face. "By Sithis, what happened to you?" My feet had automatically carried me to the one place I was always safe. _But not anymore._

"Lucien Lachance is not a friend," I croaked out. My voice sounded as though it was coming from underwater, miles away. Vicente's half-horrified, half confused expression might have been funny had it occurred under different circumstances.

"Sit down." His hands gripped my arms, guiding me into a chair. "What are you saying? What did he do to you?" I raised my eyes to my mentor's in anguish, but found I could not hold his gaze.

"Purified. He said the Sanctuary had to be purified, and I don't understand." My voice cracked on the last word. I dared another glance at him, only to see his eyes go wide with horror.

"The Purification. He ordered you to perform _the Purification?_" His voice dropped in volume, but increased in intensity. He dropped his hold on my arms as though they were red iron, and I could see him tensing up, his muscles coiling as though preparing for battle. His deep red eyes bored into mine, and I could feel the corners of my mouth reflexively curling away from my fangs. For a moment, we were frozen, staring at each other. And then his eyes changed from those of a predator back to those of my mentor. He sprang away from me and slammed shut the door, the _thud_ echoing through the Sanctuary. Then he was back by my side, dragging a chair over and sitting down in front of me, his hands once again clutching my arms.

"Lily, look at me. I need you to tell me what Lucien said to you. Every word. Do you understand?" His voice was slow and soothing, but I felt a spurt of panic as I recognized an unfamiliar emotion in my mentor's eyes. Fear. Vicente Valtieri was never afraid, but there it was just the same.

"He said…" I swallowed a couple of times. "He said that the rumors of a traitor were true. That the Black Hand had traced it back here, back…back before I joined. And I…I have to…all of you…" I couldn't finish the horrible words. Gravity was pressing on me strangely as the pressure in my head climbed. I once more looked back up at Vicente. He would make it better. Of course he would be able to sort it out, fix everything.

"That…is a lie." Never had I heard his voice so small. "None of us is a traitor."

"I know that. I tried to tell him." He stared at me blankly.

"We are being framed." And I saw his heart break. "One of our Family members is doing this to us." He buried his face in his hands, and gave a long shuddering sigh. Then his gaze drifted back up to me.

"You have to do it."

"What?!" Shock flared through me. "Vicente! No!"

"Lily, listen to me!" His voice a hoarse hiss, he half rose out of his chair, his grip on my arms threatening to snap them. "If it has come to this, then the traitor is part of the Black Hand itself. Do you hear me?" There was a menace behind his words. "The entire Dark Brotherhood is at this wretch's mercy. We have _never _been so vulnerable, not in our entire history." He paused, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from his eyes. "If you defy the Black Hand now, their wrath will fall upon all of us, including you. We are dead already." Never had his voice sounded so hopeless. "But you, Lily, you have to stay alive! Do you realize, that in this act, the traitor has allowed us to narrow down his identity?" He jerked to his feet, rummaged through his desk, then was back at the table, sketching something on a piece of paper.

"Look here. The inner circle of the Black Hand is five strong, four fingers and a thumb, so to speak." He pointed to the rough outline of hand he had drawn, circling the thumb. "This is Ungolim, the Listener. He communicates directly with the Night Mother. It is unlikely that it is him, as he could have wiped us out with ease already if this were the case. However, it is very likely that the traitor has his ear." He circled the other four fingers. "These are the Speakers. They receive contracts from the Listener, and convey them on to their respective Sanctuaries, as Lucien does. They are also tasked with recruiting. If the traitor lies among them, it is likely that that Sanctuary has seen very few new members of late."

"Could it be Lucien?" He seemed surprised by my question.

"No. It is not Lucien. This I know for certain." I frowned, but he began sketching sharp points onto each of the fingers, leaving out the last one. "Now these here, these are the Silencers, or the nails of the Hand. Each Speaker has one, as does the Listener. They serve mainly as personal henchmen, or to carry out contracts beyond the abilities of the average assassin. They, too, are normally five strong, but our own Lucien failed to select another after this traitor eliminated his." He lifted his eyes and met my gaze head on. "This is a position that you will likely be selected to fill," he said softly.

"What?" I blinked, startled. "I…can't." He raised his eyebrows.

"That is not up to you," he stated firmly. "Do as you have been commanded. Appease the Hand, and let the traitor think he has won for now. Take the Silencer position, and then do everything in your power to narrow down his identity. The fate of the Brotherhood is on your shoulders."

My head jerked back and forth rapidly, my breath coming in short bursts. "Vicente, no! I can't. I can't." The air was practically pulsing, and I felt as though I would pass out.

"You can and you will," he hissed dangerously, his words mirroring Lucien's. "This is a terrible burden, and Lily, never would I have wished for you to carry it." He looked so forlorn I could feel the tears beginning to well up behind my eyes. "But someone has to, and it falls to you. I knew you were destined for great things, but I never imagined it would be something of this magnitude." I really was crying now, and through the haze I thought I saw moisture in the corner of Vicente's eye as well. "We are all being called upon to make great sacrifices today. Our lives for the Brotherhood." I had heard that phrase before, from some of my Family members as they accepted contracts. But then it had been proudly shouted, not despondently whispered. I had always rolled my eyes at the grandiosity of that statement. But in a single moment of clarity, I understood the meaning behind it, as I saw that our family extended beyond our Sanctuary.

"I can't do it," I whispered. "Vicente, I can't kill…kill you." I saw a quick flash of emotion, but it disappeared just as I registered it. "Or Antoinetta, or Teinaava…" I shuddered at the thought.

"Why don't you wait a while," he gently interjected. "Let the thirst take over, succumb to it. Make it that much easier on yourself." I shook my head.

"I don't deserve for it to be easy." And in that moment, I realized that I would do as I had been ordered. "Will you—" I hesitated.

"Will I?" he prompted. I bit down hard on the inside of my lip, feeling a fang puncture skin.

"Will you stay with me?" I whispered. "Until…until it's…over?" There was a moment of silence, and in that moment my guilt multiplied tenfold. It was a selfish request. Then he spoke.

"You know I will." His voice was gentle, no hint of malice whatsoever. And it suddenly struck me that Vicente Valtieri loved me. Not in a romantic sense, but in the same way my mother loved me. The way my father should have loved me. He had started referring to me as his daughter once he had turned me, but in that moment I realized he didn't only mean it within the context of the night. And as I stood, he startled me by hugging me tightly, something he had never done before. "May Sithis walk with you through the shadows," he whispered. I couldn't bear to look at him as I slipped out the door.

My feet were lead as I trudged up the stairs into the Sanctuary's main chamber. I had to start somewhere. But how? _Who? _I couldn't do this. I was on the verge of hyperventilating, and when I looked down at my hands, they were shaking. I sat down at a chair in one of the corners and tried to calm down. I had to do this. Vicente said it was the only way to save us.

"You're back." I jerked as though I'd been shot, and nearly broke down crying again at the sight of Ann. "Do you have a minute?" I forced myself to smile.

"Is everything all right?" She sat down next to me, fiddling with the end of her braid.

"Oh, I've just been wanting to talk to you about something. I'd finally worked up the courage earlier, but you were training, and then you got that letter, and I didn't want to interrupt, but it was important, so I thought I'd wait until you were done, but then you left, and…" She was babbling, something she did when either very excited or very nervous. I cleared my throat slowly.

"Well, I'm here now. What is it?" She turned to face me, and although her lips were pursed, I saw her eyes were glowing.

"I slept with Lucien."

"_What?_" My voice came forth as a roar. I was livid. Liquid ice shot through my veins. That _monster_ had _dared_ to touch my little sister—and then order her execution. My stomach shuddered, and I felt as though I were about to vomit. Her eyes had gone wide, confused.

"I talked to him," she said hesitantly. "Remember a few months ago? You said I should. Last week he wanted to meet with me to talk about Phillida. We got to talking, and I…I don't know. I told him how I'd felt about him when I was younger, and he asked when I'd grown out of it and I told him I hadn't…" She paused. "What's the matter?" she asked in a small voice.

"Lucien Lachance is not the man you think he is, Antoinetta," I bit out, my voice threatening to break with every word. I saw her wince at my use of her full name. She frowned, the silence stretching between us. She was angry. She always got quiet when she was angry.

"I don't understand, Lily," she said quietly. "You told me it was a good idea. You encouraged me to pursue him." What had I been thinking? She was so _young._ She was eighteen and impossibly beautiful, and she had a matter of minutes left to live. My heart no longer beat, but somehow all the blood in my body had ended up in my head. _It's the only way to save us._

"I was wrong." My voice was ragged. _Oh, Ann. I can't explain it to you. How could I ever explain?_

"I see." Her tone was clipped and cold. She stood, and as she did so, I moved with her. My dagger was gone, but I always kept a knife in my boot. Clamping a hand over her mouth, I severed my heart's ties.

* * *

Ocheeva and M'raaj Dar had been dealt with in their beds, and at that moment, Gogron and Teinaava were engaged in a screaming match, each accusing the other of being the traitor. I huddled behind a pillar watching, wanting to clamp my hands over my ears. _No no no NO! What's wrong with you? Can't you see? It's not either of you!_ And then, Teinaava—bright, funny, courageous, Teinaava—fell, too fragile to withstand a direct blow from Gogron's axe. Blood pounding behind my eyes, I stepped forward to finish Gogron.

Teinaava had dealt some serious damage, and he stood hunched over, hands on his knees, allowing his axe to clatter to the floor. I moved silently, and by the time he saw me striking at his head, it was too late. "Why, Sister?" he wailed, but then he was dead, and it was too late, and I could never tell him that some nameless horror had infiltrated the highest ranks of our order and decreed that we die, and that if I didn't obey we would all share the same fate.

"Lily." I started as violently as Ann ever had. "Come downstairs. Look on this no more." I allowed Vicente to lead me to his quarters and sit me down in a chair. "Here." A handkerchief was placed in my hands, and I suddenly noticed I was crying again. I angrily scrubbed at my eyes.

"Telaendril isn't here, Vicente," I stated in a raw voice. "What am I supposed to do? She's not here and I don't know where to find her." I could hear him rustling through his desk. "I have her schedule," he informed me. A folded piece of parchment appeared in my field of vision. "You can snipe her out on the road. Do try and make it quick, though." How could he sound so _calm?_

And then he was crouched down in front of me. "There is one more thing I would ask of you," he said softly.

"Anything," I whispered.

"When all of this is over, travel to Castle Skingrad. Ask the Count about a cure. He is of the night, as you and I are, and has been working on one for quite some time now."

I frowned, suddenly confused. "You want me to…just give up your gift?" For a reason I could not explain, my tears began to fall faster. Vicente sighed.

"It is a lonely life, Lily. You have experienced what it is like to teeter on the brink—now imagine being plunged over. Here, surrounded by family, we may remain grounded. We can learn control, to reconcile the halves of ourselves. We may experience the best of both. But alone, the thirst quickly takes control, and madness follows. I wish better for you."

Very slowly, I nodded, focusing on my clasped hands in my lap. "And now," he continued, "it is time." My gaze travelled upward to see him holding a silver dagger. Despite myself, I began shaking my head.

"No," I whimpered.

"Yes." He reached out and drew me up out of my seat, pressing the dagger into the palm of my hand. I tried to resist, but he closed my fingers around it. "Look at me." When I couldn't, he tilted my chin upward. "I am not leaving you," he said gently. "Carry me in your heart, and I will always be there." And I couldn't bear to look into those serene pools of red a second longer. "Come now." His hand closed around mine, lifting it so the dagger was positioned over his heart—no longer beating, but still the center of his life force. I tried to pull back, but his grip was too strong. "I will help you." I closed my eyes. My arm was jerked forward, and then the hilt was pulled downward, out of my grasp.

* * *

I don't know how long I wailed over his body, but when I reemerged from the well, it was night again. I found Telaendril on the road not far out, and some unseen force must have guided my shaking hands, for I felled her in a single shot. She had been the one to teach me how to use a bow. How unkind fate was, with its misguided sense of irony.

It was in the wee hours of the morning when I returned to Fort Farragut, but Lucien was waiting for me. His face was ashy, and oddly enough, I found myself wondering how long it had been since he'd slept. "Is it…?" he asked hesitantly as I stormed though the portcullis.

"It's done," I informed him frostily. I advanced toward him on the balls of my feet, hands curled into fists at my sides. Three days had passed, and my body was begging for blood. Strangely, though, the need didn't feel as urgent as it usually did. But there was a ragged hole where my heart had been ripped out. How could anything ever matter again? Let my body be denied. Let the sun scorch me to ash. Let my mind be lost to madness. But tearing into Lucien Lachance seemed like a truly excellent idea at that moment.

"Then they are all…" His face sagged, and for a moment I was startled by this uncharacteristic display of emotion. But his cold façade immediately returned. "You have done well, and the Night Mother is most pleased." Wrong again. There was _nothing _about all this that could _possibly_ please her. "I now promote you to Silencer. You know of the Black Hand, no doubt, but does not each finger have a claw? A nai—"

"I know how it works," I cut him off. Silencer. Part of the Black Hand. Just as Vicente had predicted. But thinking on my dead father was salt in the wound of my missing heart, and the grief welled up, threatening to overwhelm me. But I forced myself to think instead of mission he had charged me with. _Find the traitor. He (or she) is part of the Black Hand. Ten strong: five digits, five nails. It's not me. It's not Ungolim. I suspect Lucien, but Vicente said he wasn't, and I trust my father. Three down, seven left. Which of that seven is the traitor?_

Lucien was speaking, and I forced myself to focus on his words. "—dead drops, located across Cyrodiil. Each will contain a contract, as well as your payment for the last. You will find the first in a hollow rock atop Hero Hill, to the southeast of here. Check in a few weeks—something should be available by then. Do you have any questions?"

I simply stared at him. This man had taken advantage of my little sister. He had ordered the deaths of my family. And worst of all, he had ordered _me _to kill them. I could practically see my heart glistening in his hand. _You are no Brother of mine. _My hatred had to be glaringly obvious, but he chose to ignore it.

"Very well. Here is your blade back." He produced the Blade of Woe, slowly stepping forward and offering it to me hilt first. I snatched it back harder than necessary, feeling a slight twinge of satisfaction when he grimaced and a flash of red showed between his fingers. The smell should have been overpowering as it hit me, but it barely managed to pierce my fog. But he made no comment on my aggression.

"Also, outside you will find my horse, Shadowmere. She has served me well, but I now entrust you with her care. I believe you will find more use for her than I." I should have been surprised that he would so willingly give up such a valuable commodity. I should have been delighted, as my mind flashed back to Valenwood, but instead I felt like crying. I didn't want a horse. I wanted my family back.

"And finally…" He hesitated. I raised my eyebrows, indicating for him to go on. "Do not go back to the Sanctuary," he finally said. My face hardened, and he took a step back, raising his hands defensively. "I will…attend to whatever is inside. Just do not return, I beg of you. For all of our sakes. That place holds nothing for you." All our sakes? I gritted my teeth. I hadn't planned to anyhow. The ghosts would have driven me mad. On that note, I spun on my heel and headed toward the exit.

"Silencer." I turned at the sound of the already-hated title. He met my gaze square on for the first time. "They were my family, too." I merely turned and disappeared into the night.


	26. Chapter 23: Forfeiting the Birthright

Chapter 23: Forfeiting the Birthright

I patted Shadowmere's neck through her thick mane as she reached the summit of the long hill, Skingrad coming into view at the foot of the other side. The mare was tall and strong, as well as wickedly fast. It had been less than a day since I left Cheydinhal, but there we were, practically at the gates already. When I had approached her outside the fort, she had side-stepped away, tossing her head as her red eyes rolled nervously, but she had settled down quickly. There was clearly something off about her—she was nothing like the hardy paints, the speedy blacks, the graceful greys I had ever encountered, or even the nimble little ponies my childhood friend's family had bred. I hadn't ridden in eight years, but she had gotten me to my destination quickly and safely despite my unsteady seat and clumsy hands, and that was all that really mattered to me.

A storm was brewing; I could see it boiling in from the northwest, the thick black clouds hovering low in the sky. The air grew heavy and oppressive as the temperature dropped, and I dared to unwrap the scarf from around my face. It had been more of a precaution than anything, as I had fed in Cheydinhal and I was currently safe to face the daylight. I had thrown caution to the wind, grabbing a guard and dragging him into a dark corner, where I'd left the body. I didn't know why I'd drained him. I hadn't been fully expended, and I had continued drinking long after the blood had turned thick and sharp instead of refreshing. I had fought the urge to vomit, and instead focused on the distressing memories that had been churned up. Strangely enough, though, they were nearly soothing…at least compared to—

Shadowmere threw up her head, skidding to a stop on the steep slope as my grip on the reins tightened. My attention snapped back to the present, I immediately released her. "Sorry, girl," I murmured, tapping my heels into her sides. She snorted as she started forward again, clearly not forgiving me. But I didn't blame her.

A fat raindrop splattered onto the leather of my armored arm, followed by another and yet another, and then just like that it became a downpour. The wind picked up behind it and joined forces, lashing at my eyes. I could just make out Shadowmere's neck in front of me, rivulets of water running down her mane. The stone of the steep road grew slick, and Shadowmere suddenly slipped, her hooves sliding out from underneath her. I should have felt a quick stab of fear at the least, but there was nothing—and that in itself was its own breed of terrifying. But it would seem she was as surefooted as she was fast, as she collected herself and continued down the slope. _Focus. You're no good to anyone dead._

A sharp scent suddenly filled my nose, and there was a flash of movement to the right. And then the goblins were upon us, shrieking and snarling. I sat frozen as Shadowmere reared, striking out at them with her hooves. I at least had the presence of mind to rise in my stirrups, pitching my weight forward so as not to slide right off. But when she touched down and rose up again, I let go. I smacked the ground with a meaty _thump_, the air immediately expelled from my lungs. A moment later, the seizing pain caught me, shattering the bubble that had surrounded me since I had let the guard's body drop. Tears flooded my eyes, indistinguishable from the rain. _Vicente._

A goblin appeared above me, but something black shot across the field of my vision, and it disappeared. _Razor sharp, filed thin, how easily it had slid across her throat…how deeply it had carved…_

_STOP! _I let the roar echo, shutting down the silent sobs shuddering through me. _Three clear, seven to go. Who is the traitor? _I forced my breathing to slow, fighting through the pain until I realized that the physical ache had long since ceased. Placing my palms flat on the ground, I slowly pressed until I was sitting upright. Shadowmere stood a little ways off, eyeing me warily as she pawed at the goblin corpses scattered across the road. I crawled to my feet and stepped toward her, only for her to dance away. I dropped my shoulders, angling my body and shifting my gaze away toward the ground as I remembered what Liethl's father has always said about the stance being non-threatening. Once again, I attempted to move toward her, sneaking a glance upward in the process. Her nostrils flared suspiciously, but she allowed me to take her reins and remount, my joints groaning in protest as I lifted myself into the saddle. I mentally chastised myself for allowing myself to fall. It had been foolish, and foolishness wasn't going to find the traitor.

It was pitch black as we reached the west gates, the only light coming from the oily orange flames of a pair of torches mounted to the wall. The rain had stopped, but a thick cloud cover was still simmering. It would have perhaps been wiser to travel around the city to the stables on the other side, but I was nervous about leaving Shadowmere to an unsuspecting stable hand—she hadn't attempted to harm me, but she was clearly extremely volatile. So I slipped her bit out and lashed the reins to the solitary hitching post myself, turning to loosen her girth. Something bumped into my shoulder and I jumped, whipping around only to come face to face with her muzzle. I quickly reached up to push her head away, narrowly avoiding having her sink her teeth into my arm. Apparantly, she was not ready to be friends. Not that I blamed her, though. Being my friend was a dangerous thing these days.

To get the castle, I had to leave the city again, crossing a bridge over a ravine, climbing a steep, winding hill, then crossing the ravine yet again. This bridge was much higher, and I could feel the wind pressing against me, threatening to sweep me over the edge. To fall would mean instant death. I peered over, but was faced only with darkness. Uneasily, I continued on.

The drizzle had picked up again, and by the time I reached the castle courtyard, it had turned into a steady rain. Inside the castle, I peered out from beneath my sodden hood as I took in my surroundings. This castle was much different than any I had ever been in; instead of a throne room, it was laid out as a large, empty space with a balcony running around the edges—almost like an arena. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled as my senses involuntarily heightened. It was obvious this was the dwelling place of a predator.

Aside from the pair of guards at the door, the room appeared deserted. I was contemplating sitting down at one of the tables scattered sparsely across the far end of the room, but then I heard a door slam, accompanied by footsteps clicking across the floor. A woman emerged from beyond the staircase, pausing when she saw me. Setting down the silver tray she carried, she made her way over, her footsteps growing muffled on the thick plush carpet. "Hello, traveler," she greeted as she drew closer. "May I help you?"

"I'd like to request an audience with the Count." She frowned slightly.

"I apologize for the inconvenience, but I'm afraid Count Skingrad does not accept unsolicited visitors. I'm Hal-Liurz, his steward. I handle the county's public affairs." I shook my head.

"I understand, but I really must speak to him." Her frown deepened.

"The Count is a very private person—" she began, but I cut her off.

"It's absolutely essential," I insisted, reaching up to push away my hood. "I'm here to ask him about a cure for vampirism."

Whatever indignant denial she had planned died on the tip of her tongue as she caught sight of my face, her eyes widening in understanding. Anyone who had spent time around a vampire could recognize one, even one that had recently fed. There was no mistaking the drawn features, the too-sharp canines, the deep burgundy eyes. "I see," she said slowly. "Yes, I do believe the Count will want to handle this matter…personally." She stepped away carefully, never taking her eyes from me, and ascended the staircase.

Minutes ticked past and I began to grow restless. What could be taking so long? She had been gone at least fifteen minutes, and I could swear I felt eyes on me. I just wanted to get this over with and go home. Then I remembered I didn't have a home anymore, and I bit down sharply on the inside of my lip, puncturing it. Blood flowed into my mouth, the sharp taste stemming the wave of grief that had descended on me.

"So. The blood is still fresh." I whirled to see a dark-haired man standing on the stairs, dim red eyes regarding me curiously. He smiled at my frown. "I do not smell the years on you. You are newly turned." He began to advance down the stairs. "Yet you come asking for a cure?" The last statement was a question.

"I ask at the final request of my father," I said stiffly.

"Your father?" he asked. He was standing mere inches from me. "Would you mean your natural father, or your sire? The vampire who turned you," he clarified as I frowned in confusion.

"Both."

"I see." But he didn't. He continued to stare thoughtfully. "And who, may I ask, would your sire be? For I know that no common sewer-dweller would dare send his spawn to me, much less know of my condition." His tone had switched from curious to menacing so quickly I had only a second to comprehend it before realizing I was in real danger. But it was only an awareness, not an interpretation of an actual threat. _Find the traitor._ I decided to start talking, and do so quickly. The words caught in my throat, but I forced them out.

"Vicente Valtieri." The vampire's eyebrows shot upwards.

"Vicente Valtieri?" he repeated incredulously. "You are the spawn of Vicente Valtieri?" I nodded slowly, wondering what the name meant to him. Did he know of his Brotherhood connection? For a moment, a glimmer of respect appeared in his eyes. Then he frowned.

"Yet you said "final" request."

"He's dead." My voice droned the news flatly. His eyebrows once again arced in surprise.

"Vicente Valtieri dead?" There was a note of shock in his tone. "How?" I tried to form an answer, but tears began to well up, and my chin was wobbling.

"By the Nine." There was an exasperated sigh, then a flash of pain. Red brightened my vision, then faded to a sting. His nails had flayed the side of my face open, I discovered, as my glove came away dark and sticky. A faint stirring of anger arose in my chest, but not the usual horror. "I am expected to believe this sniveling milksop is the spawn of the great Vicente Valtieri?" I lifted my casting hand ever so slightly, a tiny flicker of flame forming between my fingers. This did not escape his attention, eliciting a short laugh.

"Ah, so now she shows some mettle!" He leapt at me then, his hands locking around my throat. The shock of it shot along the entire length of my spine, my throat burning as it threatened to collapse, but I brought my hand up and sent a spray of flames against his torso. I felt a twinge of satisfaction at his gasp of pain as he released me, but he immediately rallied and rammed a fist into my abdomen. I staggered, but I had tightened my solar plexus in time, minimizing the impact. When I straightened, my knife was in my hand, and I struck. He swerved, but the tiny _snick_ and sudden scent of blood informed me I had made contact.

He took two ducking steps backward, then froze. I did the same, settling into a half-crouch, my knife balanced in one hand and a ball of flame in the other. The silence lengthened, but then he broke it. "Now, _that_ I would expect from a pupil of Valtieri." His perfectly coifed hair had fallen, sweaty, into his eyes, the front of his waistcoat was singed, and blood oozed from the wound at his neck, staining his collar. I noted, however, that it was thick and dark. I had fed more recently than he had; his powers were compensating for his weakening body. Had we continued, he would have held the advantage.

"I'm Janus Hassildor, Count of Skingrad. I apologize for the rude welcome, but the news you bring is most distressing. Valtieri was one of the greatest of our kind. His powers were legendary. Had he given the word, I don't know of single vampire who would not have leapt to do his bidding." That information was startling. I had known, of course, that he had been very old, and I had witnessed his ground-breaking mastery of his powers. But to hear that he had been some sort of vampire lord was startling. I suddenly felt sick as I remembered one of my visions. Perhaps it had not been so far removed from reality as I thought.

"But he is now gone, you say." His face was etched with concern, and I forced myself to speak, feeling ashamed for my moment of weakness.

"He was betrayed." Best to leave it at that, and allow speculation to do the rest. Hassildor had clearly held him in high regard, and I didn't really want to explain that I had been the one who killed him. That thought threatened to overwhelm me, but I forced it down. _You've already slipped up once. There won't be a second chance. If you die, they died for nothing. _But the Count was nodding.

"I recognize your armor. But that is the nature of your organization, though, is it not?" _No, it's not! We're FAMILY! _I wanted to shriek at him, but even I knew that wasn't true anymore. _Ten strong, three clear, one is a lie. _So instead, I nodded.

"He instructed me to cure myself and find the traitor." His knowledge of the Brotherhood was unsettling, but Vicente wouldn't have sent me to him if it wasn't safe. Would he have? As soon as the thought occurred, I instantly felt guilty for doubting him, and had to fight to keep control.

"I see." He sighed. "I'll tell you what. I have done some research on a cure, but I have run into some difficulties. If you assist me, I may be able to arrange for a cure for you. Does that sound fair?" I couldn't see that I really had a choice, so I nodded in agreement.

"It's fair."

"Excellent." He clasped his hands. "After I was turned, I passed the dark gift on to my wife, Rona. But while I embraced the shadows, she did not. Do you know what happens to a starving vampire?"

"Madness," I answered blankly. Vicente had told me as much.

"In the beginning, yes. But it goes beyond that. Deprive a vampire long enough, and her powers will fail along with her body. My Rona has passed into a coma—a coma from which she cannot awaken."

"I'm sorry." The words themselves sounded detached, and perhaps I ought to have meant them. But I could feel myself going numb with grief again.

"My servants and I have cared for her all these years, but I wish for her to finally find peace. The cure is for her. However, the only lead I have points to the witches of Glenmoril. In the texts I have studied, they are reported to have such power." He sighed. "However, they have not been active in Cyrodiil in quite some time. But there have been rumors of a woman matching their description living along the Corbolo River. I would go to investigate myself, but I cannot risk drawing that kind of attention."

"And that's where I come in." He nodded. "You want me to go see if there's any truth to these rumors."

"And if there is, persuade her to assist with a cure. I can offer her a reward; no price is too steep. However…" He hesitated. "What she wants may not be something I can provide." I frowned.

"And what exactly does that mean?" He sighed.

"These witches are known for being…tricky. She will most likely test you."

"Test me _how_?" My teeth gritted together slightly.

"That is entirely a mystery." Not nearly enough to go on. And there was a faint sense of foreboding hanging in the air that was making me feel ill. For a moment, I seriously considered backing out. "_Ask the Count about a cure…I wish better for you…"_

"I will investigate. I'll send word if there are any leads." I couldn't bear to defy my father. Not in life, and certainly not in death.

The hut was right where the Count had said it would be, on the edge of a cliff overlooking the river. It was probably a beautiful view, but all I could think about was the cliff washing away, leaving the house to be swept over the edge. Shadowmere tossed her head anxiously as I dismounted, but I didn't bother to secure her. In the event that this went badly, I wanted to be able to make a quick escape. It occurred to me that the mare could bolt, or even simply wander off, but that was a risk I was willing to take at this point. The door was unlocked, I noted, as I took a deep breath and slowly pushed it open.

It was sometime in the wee hours of the morning, but the figure standing over the fire straightened up to stare at me curiously. She was a white-haired little woman, wizened with age—for all appearances, completely harmless. But I knew better than the allow appearances to cloud my judgment.

"Oh my! What bring you to this neck of the woods, my lady?" She had a high, trilling voice, like a bird's song. I saw no reason to beat around the bush.

"I'm here about a cure for vampirism." She let a little gasp.

"Oh my dear, what ever makes you think I would know about such a thing?" A flicker of doubt appeared in the corner of my mind. Maybe she was simply a harmless old woman. But I decided to continue pressing.

"You're a witch, aren't you?" I demanded. And there it was. Her eyes suddenly narrowed.

"I gave up witchcraft a long time ago," she said sharply. "But a cure for vampirism…." Her eyes grew a faraway look. "That's something…different." She began to slowly pace. "Challenging…potentially dangerous…" she murmured, more to herself then to me. Then she paused, staring at me directly. She frowned, a hard thoughtfulness filling her face, and to my dismay, I found myself beginning to shrivel under her gaze. Then, she suddenly smiled.

"Do a little something for me, and I may be able to help you. How does that sound?" And I found I was petrified. How did she have this effect on me? But I woodenly nodded. "Bring me five grand soul gems—empty ones, now, mind you, filled ones are no good. And then, you and I will talk." Was this the test Hassildor had been referring to? But I nodded my agreement.

"Yes ma'am," I heard myself whisper. I had been unwittingly been backing toward the door, and as soon as it touched my back, I quickly ducked outside. Shadowmere was standing right where I'd left her, although she was nervously pawing at the ground, kicking up chunks of dirt. "You're right," I muttered as I remounted. "Let's get out of here."

* * *

It took a long time to find the soul gems. Too long, or so it felt. Grand soul gems were rare enough, but empty ones were practically nonexistent. It made sense, though, when one considered what that kind of power implied. I didn't want to think about what the witch was planning on using them for. But I was an assassin, as well as a former thief. I knew how to get things. I knew how to listen, both for rumors and for what I wasn't being told. I knew that just because something was secured didn't mean it was safe. And I knew that taking an object was far easier than taking a life—and I was well accomplished with the latter. And so two weeks later, I returned to the witch's hut.

She gave a little cry of delight as she unwrapped the rags I had swaddled them in. "Ah, yes. These will do nicely. Very nicely indeed." The half-smile she gave was slightly disconcerting, but she had changed the subject. "Now. About your cure." I nodded. "I'll need you to bring me the ingredients. Once you have done so, I can begin."

"What do you need?" I didn't like how timid I sounded. I got the sense that it was a very bad idea to show weakness around this woman.

"Six cloves of garlic, two shoots of bloodgrass, and five leaves of nightshade, to start with. Those will be easy enough to acquire, I should imagine. The last two, however, may be a challenge." I stiffened slightly. This, too, I assumed, was a test. "I need you to bring me the blood of an Argonian. Take this dagger. It has been enchanted, and it will collect the blood I need. You needn't _kill _the Argonian, just one strike will do. But for the last item…" She paused, and I knew she was toying with me. I kept my face perfectly neutral, staring her down. I would _not_ show her my fear.

"I will need the ashes of a powerful vampire. But not just any vampire. A powerful vampire indeed." She paused, waiting for a reaction. "The vampire you seek is called Hindaril. Those who attempted to destroy him in the past were unsuccessful, but they were able to trap him underground, where he languishes to this day. You will find his prison is beneath the North Panther River. If you are able to defeat him, his ashes will be more than adequate to meet my needs."

* * *

I found the prison easily enough, but I wondered how the vampire had been trapped, as it appeared little more than a simple cave. However, as I pried open the doors, the slight flash of blue gave me my answer. Magical barriers. Opening it from the outside appeared to have broken it, but I was wary. What if I descended into this cave and was never able to emerge? I took a deep breath, swallowing the fear. What if this was part of the witch's test, to trap me down here? But Vicente had wanted this. I had to try.

A few lesser vampires were scattered throughout the passages, and although they were hungry, they were weak, and obviously untrained in combat. I was curious though, as to how they were still able to function. The witch had implied that they had been imprisoned here a long time, but Hassildor had claimed that his wife had fallen into a coma when she did not feed. The answer, though, came to me as I trekked further in. Rat bones were scattered everywhere, and when I stumbled across a half-drained rat, I realized they had been feeding off the vermin. I briefly wondered what effect this would have had on them, but when I finally found Hindaril himself, I once again had my answer.

He was half-crazed, filthy and razed by madness. He fled as I approached, although he did manage to fling a powerful shock spell at me first. But when I cut him down, ending his unintelligible shrieks, I rather felt as though it had been a mercy killing, and I thought of Vicente saying how he wanted better for me. And I realized, not for the first time, that Vicente Valtieri had been a very unique vampire indeed.

But I then faced the challenge of obtaining his ashes. A flame spell would have been a better idea than a sword, I realized too late. With a sigh, I locked my arms around his chest beneath his arms and struggled to stand, gritting my teeth. I was strong, but his body was still heavy and unwieldy. I managed to drag him a few feet away before I had to pause, panting. I was aiming for the stone altar in the chamber I had found him in, but at this rate, I wasn't sure I'd ever make it. But I had to try. Digging my heels into the ground, I pitched my weight backwards, scooting him several more feet along, but nearly toppling over in the process. But I eventually dragged him down the tunnel to the altar.

I got his top half onto it without a terrible amount of trouble, but when I went to swing up his legs, he rolled off. I let out a half growl, half shriek of frustration, stepping away and slamming a fist into a wall. I recoiled at the pain with a gasp, sinking down to the ground. This was futile. Why should I even bother? I couldn't even remember why I had started in the first place. Or at least I wished I couldn't remember.

I stood, sliding my pack down from my shoulders and taking out a length of rope. I looped it around Hindaril's chest, then circled to the other side of the altar. I strained against his weight, pulling as hard as I could. If I hadn't been wearing gloves, my hands would have been shredded, and even still, I could feel the rope biting through them. But eventually, he was half-sprawled across it. I straightened him out, then called upon flames to dance in my palm.

One spell was all that was needed. Unhindered, the flames spread quickly, and soon his entire body was ablaze. Surprisingly, there was very little odor as his flesh turned grey, breaking down and crumbling. It should have been horrifying, but in reality, it was almost serene. And when only the ashes remained, I swept them into the leather bag I had brought along and made my way to the entrance. I could see the opening when I suddenly remembered the barrier that had kept the vampire trapped in here for so long. Oh gods. What if I could never escape? What if I was forced to remain down here forever, feeding off of rats and growing weak and mad? I would let myself fall into a coma as Rona Hassildor had before I let myself be reduced to that, I thought grimly was I tightened my jaw and marched forward.

But then, I was standing in the night, the cave behind me. I had broken it when I entered. I let out a shrieky sound similar to a laugh, and for a brief instant, I remembered what it had been like to be happy. But then reality caught up, and the moment died.

* * *

I ended up paying an Argonian beggar for his blood. I didn't know why. As many lives as I had taken over the years, it would have been easy to make a small, quick strike and flee. But instead, I marched up to the beggar and offered a purse of septims for him to slide the enchanted dagger across his palm—a deal he accepted eagerly. And when I turned the ingredients over to the witch, she had given me a small, knowing smile before announcing that she needed twenty-four hours and disappearing down a trapdoor.

But it had been well over twenty-four hours, and I was still awkwardly wandering around her hut. The sun had risen, a day had passed, and now it was nearly night again. What could possibly be taking her so long? Had I been swindled? I had half a mind to go down that trapdoor after her, but when I gingerly tested the latch, it was locked, and I wasn't about to break into a witch's private lair.

A creaking sound caught my attention, and I turned to see the trapdoor swinging open. The witch emerged, cradling a glass bottle. "Ah, there you are, dear," she said sweetly. "I have the cure you requested. I do hope I didn't keep you waiting too long, but I was able to make a much larger quantity than I had expected. I was able to produce two doses." She smiled as she approached. "I believe this dose is promised to another, but should you need another for personal reasons, I may be able to provide it." I stiffened. I had never mentioned my intentions to her. She let out a laugh. "Oh my dear, I can see the alarm in your face. Rest assured, I know a great deal about a great many things. A great deal more than you think." _Keep. Calm. Don't let her see your fear._ I swallowed.

"May I please have the cure?" Another laugh, this one long and grating.

"Of course, dear." I quickly slipped off my gloves and gingerly took the bottle from her. I swaddled it in the rags I carried and eased it into my pack. "Now there is, of course, the matter of the price." I felt my entire body grow still.

"You had indicated that the soul gems were your price," I said slowly, straightening and turning to face her. What I saw chilled me, as her eyes had grown cold and glittering.

"They were _my_ price, true. But it is a very precious gift this cure offers. Only a death can pay for a life." Her voice was strong and horrible, and for a moment, I saw her eyes flash pitch black. She was mad. She was either mad or else downright evil, and she was going to kill me right here right now. My body would be left to rot right on this floor, and then the traitor would annihilate us, and then Vicente and Ann and Teinaava and Ocheeva and all the rest had all died for nothing. I made a move to bolt for the door, but I suddenly remembered that the sun was still up—and I had seen her face before, in one of my visions.

I froze staring at her. Was this possible? How was this possible? I wasn't supposed to have that kind of power, but all of a sudden I remembered what Vicente had said about the Emperor and the Amulet, and then it seemed to be burning me through my pack. Or maybe it was the burning of her gaze that I felt.

The seconds stretched out, warping into minutes. And her gaze still bored through me, but I met it head on. The terror was coursing through me, but all I could think of was the sight of my burnt flesh boiling from my hands. And then she began to laugh again, a terrible laugh that crackled through my head. "Yes, fly, little vampire!" she shrieked. "Fly into the sunlight! You have seen what will happen, as have I!" She stepped closer, and I was too petrified to move.

"Why?" I croaked. She cackled.

"Because you must be purified, my dear. Your sins have grown so many your entire body is rotted with them." I shrank back, but she kept on coming. "How more wretched could you be than to throw away the greatest gift you have ever been granted?" The wood of the door frame pressed against my back, and I wanted to call for help. Who, though, would hear me?

"I don't understand." I tried to keep my voice steady, but it rode upon waves of fear.

"How many must die for you, Elbereth?" The shock of being addressed by my real name froze me where I stood. _How did she know that? _"How many must you condemn to their graves through your weakness?" Panic swelled, but then it came. Sunset. All vampires, no matter where they are, can always sense when the world becomes theirs once again. The door bounced off its hinges as I sprinted toward Shadowmere, the witch's laughter following me. The mare, bless her, broke immediately into a gallop as I vaulted onto her, and we fled from that terrible place, not once looking back.

* * *

When I made it back to Castle Skingrad, Hal-Liurz appeared to be waiting for me, which I thought to be strange. "You've returned," she greeted. "Did you find what you sought?" I nodded slowly.

"I have a cure." I produced the glass bottle, peeling away its wrappings. The steward's eyes lit up. "Excellent. Please follow me." She led me back out into the courtyard, over to a set of stairs. But instead of climbing them, she pressed a hidden switch, and an opening appeared, causing my mind to flash back to the Imperial Prison for a moment. She stood aside and gestured toward the opening. "Go on," she urged. You will find the Count inside. I cannot follow you."

I descended into the tunnel, curving away into darkness. A faint outline of a door appeared, and when I tried the handle, it swung inward without so much as a creak. Torchlight appeared, and I followed it further until I reached the chamber. Three figures were at the end, a woman lying unmoving on a bed, the Count, looking grim-faced and stern, and…

I drew my sword, but the Count threw himself in front of me. "No!" he shouted. "She is a friend!" I glared over his shoulder at the witch, who only smiled that simpering smile.

"I'm not so sure about that," I said through gritted teeth.

"Enough of this, child, all will be explained in due time," the witch chimed in.

"Do you have the cure?" the Count demanded. I nodded, offering him the bottle without taking my eyes from the witch.

"I can revive her, but not for long," the witch spoke up. "Just enough time for the cure to be administered." She stepped up to the bedside, and I shifted my attention over. The witch placed a hand on the woman's forehead. There was a murmur of an incantation, and then a flash of green light. The woman's body jolted, but then she appeared to stir. Eyelids lifted away from pale red eyes—so pale they were actually pink. Her gaunt, stone-like face showed a flicker of emotion, then went still again, her eyes falling shut once more.

"Rona." The Count's voice spoke. "Rona, my dear. It's time to wake up." He knelt beside the bed, taking one of her skeletal hands in both of his own. Her eyes fluttered open again at the sound of his voice.

"Janus?" It was a weak whisper that escaped her lips. "Janus, no…I…let me sleep. Just let me…"

"Shh, my love," he interjected. He uncorked the bottle, and I saw that his hands were shaking. "I've come to give you peace. Peace at last. Just…" His voice broke. "Just drink this."

"Oh, Janus." One frail hand wrapped itself around the neck of the bottle, the other came up to stroke his face. "Thank you, my love. Thank you so much." He nodded, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, which were protruding through her blouse. He lifted her slightly, helping her guide the bottle to her lips. She drank deeply, and when the last drop was gone, she let out a shrill cry, and then went still. The Count stared in horror.

"My wife," he cried out. "My beautiful wife." He cradled her to his chest, and I heard sounds similar to those of sobbing.

"So sad to watch, is it not?" The witch turned to me conspiratorially, and I glared at her, quickly backing a few steps away.

"Just what exactly are you doing here?" I asked through teeth. "I never told you about any of this. And the last time we spoke I'm pretty sure you threatened to kill _someone._" She smirked.

"My dear, _I _never _threatened_ _murder_. This is the price that is already in place; I have no say in it. Death is simply the price of life—something I should think someone in your line of work would understand." She knew I was an assassin? I could only gape at her.

"The who has to die for Rona Hassildor?" I suddenly snapped, the only offensive response I could think of. The witch pointed to the other side of the room, where the Count still held her corpse.

"She has herself." She paused, allowing that to sink in. "But I think perhaps you ask because you fear for you own life." That got my attention.

"I honestly don't know." The confession slipped out of my mouth before I could stop myself. "I think I want to live, but how can I when I have nothing to live for?" I could feel the tears welling up, but I fought them back. _Why _was I _telling her _all of this? She knew too much and was far too hostile for this to be a good idea.

To my utter shock, though, she began laughing. I stared at her indignantly, tears forgotten. "My dear, you have _much_ to live for," she reassured. I rolled my eyes.

"I'm sure," I said sardonically. "How could you _possibly_ know that?" But then I remembered all the uncanny knowledge she had displayed thus far, and a shiver ran along my spine.

"Why don't you find out for yourself?" Seemingly out of nowhere, she produced a glass bottle, identical to the one Rona Hassildor had just drunk from. I eyed it warily. There it was. The cure. What Vicente had instructed me to seek out, what I had discovered. It meant the loss of ties to my father, loss of the proof of his acceptance of me. But it also meant promise. The promise of eating food, of walking in the sunlight, of being able to _feel _again. Because too often, a vampire's clarity painted everything in a harsh, unforgiving light that I was uncomfortably aware of.

"But then who has to pay for my life?" It came out as a whisper.

"The price has already been paid, by the same one who set you on your path," the witch replied. "I sensed this the moment you stepped into my home." The tears were falling of their own accord, and I reached out to shakily take the bottle from her. _Oh, Vicente. Did you know of this? _I removed the cork and raised it to my lips. It smelled dark and dank, with a faint hint of something saccharine. After a moment's hesitation, I chugged it down in a single gulp.

At first, nothing happened. And then I felt it, a burning sensation in the pit of my stomach. I gasped, as the pain intensified, spreading up through my chest. I was shaking violently now, as black holes appeared in my vision. The air trembled as a wave of dizziness crashed into me, and I was vaguely aware that I had collapsed to the floor, my limbs jerking in spasms of their own accord. _Is this dying? It's not so bad…_

_Boom._

A seizing pain caught me in the chest, echoing throughout my body.

_Boom._

Another followed, this time with a pain worse than the first.

_Boom boom._

As my heart contracted, pumping blood throughout my body for the first time in months, I began gasping for air, suddenly aware that I _needed _it once more.

_Boom boom. Boom boom. Boom boom._

A rhythm began to form—weak and unsteady, but a solid heartbeat nonetheless. It would take some getting used to. With that coherent thought, I realized that the pain was gone. My body was still, and my vision had returned. I slowly rolled myself over into a sitting position, looking up at the witch.

"How do you feel?"

"Human." And it was true. A new heaviness had descended on me, and I felt like the weight would crush me. I suddenly needed to escape that tiny chamber. "Thank you. For your help." I scrambled to my feet, but swayed and had to grasp on to a chair before I could get my feet under me. "I have to ask, though." I suddenly wheeled on her. "How did you _know_? All those things I never told you…and you said you saw my vision. And then why did you say…" My voice trailed off, but the witch seemed to understand.

"It was a test," she replied solemnly. "Do you run from your fears? Would you so casually throw away the gift of life—a gift that had already been paid for? Your destiny is filled with darkness."

"What does that mean?" I managed to choke out. Oh gods, what was she implying? "And how did you _know_?"

"I see things, child. Past, present, and future. My own path, and the paths of those who cross mine. The day you were turned, your destiny was altered, leading you to me. That same day, you began appearing in my visions." She said this so plainly it chilled me to the very core. I was once again struck with a strong urge to flee. And I was halfway out the door, so I may have misunderstood, but I thought I heard her say, "Because there's a price to pay when you birth a Septim bastard."


	27. Chapter 24: What Lily Does

Chapter 24: What Lily Does

Shadowmere's hooves slipped on the ice coating the Red Ring Road, her legs splaying out as she struggled to regain her balance. "Whoa, girl." I gave her her head as she skidded, then tightened the reins to slow her down from the trot she had been moving at. "Easy, now. We'll just walk for a bit." She snorted, shaking her head. She didn't like being held back. I felt the same way, though. The frantic pace at which we had crossed the province all autumn and winter was exhausting, but it gave me very little time to think. Too much free time, I had learned, was a dangerous thing.

When I had turned back, and the witch had asked me how I felt, I had told her human. But really what I had meant was weak. I had to give up using my axe; my biceps gave out and the tendons of my forearms swelled up and throbbed when I tried to hoist it around. Running burned my quads and my lungs. I constantly needed food, water, warmth, rest; when I had been a vampire, all I had really needed was blood. Strange, how I had only been a vampire for a matter of months, but it had felt as though it'd been all my life. The constant thumping of my heartbeat had bothered me for the first several weeks, but I had grown so accustomed to it I scarcely noticed it anymore. I lifted a hand away from the reins and brought it to my chest. _Boomboom boomboom boomboom. _I could just feel it through my glove and the breastplate of my armor. It was a good thing, I knew, but the thought of just how fragile I had become was sobering

It wasn't just my body that had become weak, though—it was my mind as well. Sometimes, out on the lonely road, the wind's shrieks seemed to form words, and there were times I battled tears of frustration as I pressed on through it. Howls of distant animals, or the appearance of an occasional bandit caused my heart rate to accelerate and my muscles to tense as a burst of fear would grip me. I hated being afraid. How was it possible for me to be an assassin, to have taken as many lives as I had, and still be afraid? As Vicente had promised, the vampirism had purged me of its poison, and its reappearance had been entirely unwelcome. My throat began to tighten at the thought of Vicente, but I fought the memories back. The loneliness, however, really was the worst part. I would never grow used to it. Never. I had taken to talking to Shadowmere as we travelled, in attempt to ward it off, but at least I hadn't reached the point of pretending she answered back. I snorted a little at that thought. If I ever were to, then I would know I had reached the point of utter madness.

Out of nowhere, I suddenly wondered if Lucien was going mad. He had had less interaction with the Sanctuary than I had, but his parting words still haunted me. _They were my family, too. _I thought of his dead drop orders I carried with me. The Speaker's handwriting, always so neat and elegant, had turned to an ineligible scrawl, sporadically filling the parchment, and his once formal, articulate diction had turned colloquial, half-ranting and fragmented. He had also taken to sharing an uncomfortable level of detail about the contracts with me. The Night Mother provided the Listener with the details, the Speakers made the arrangements, and assassins carried them out, no questions asked. It was the way it had always been. We didn't know; we didn't _need_ to know. Of course, since I was now technically part of the Black Hand, maybe he felt the need to disclose some information about them. But I didn't like it.

Long ago, before vampirism had turned it into a business deal, I had told myself that my targets had done the clients some harm—that I was setting to right some wrong in the world through my kills. Although in the back of my mind I knew that the situation was very likely the complete opposite, as long as I didn't know, I could fill in the blanks however I liked. But now, I was coming face to face with the facts. I was being forced to make the judgment for myself: did my target deserve to die? Once upon a time, I would have asked a certain vampire about this. But now, there was only emptiness. If Lucien felt even half as lonely as I did…

A surge of anger tore through me at my moment of pity for the man responsible for my family's deaths. Shadowmere threw up her head, stopping short as my grip on the reins involuntarily tightened. "I'm sorry!" I immediately released her. "I'm so sorry, girl." I patted her neck as she started up again, disdainfully whuffing. I squinted at the sun, noting its position low on the horizon. It was late afternoon, and I only had a few hours until sunset—not enough to make time to make it to the city. We were heading west, however, and I knew there were a few inns scattered along this stretch of the road. Seedy little inns, such as the one I turned off at, had become the closest thing I had to a home over the past several months. Beds were cheap, booze was plentiful, and company was free. I had become a fallen woman, I though wryly as I dismounted.

That same thought occurred to me later, when the Breton I had brought to my bed refused to leave. An uppercut to the jaw and a knee to the groin, as well as a dagger to the throat, were enough to convince him, though. But still, I was shaking as I dragged the chest from the corner to barricade the door. I crossed the tiny room again to the bedroll, picking up my pack along the way and emptying it out. There wasn't much that spilled out onto the grimy linen—I hadn't exactly stopped to pack when I'd fled the Sanctuary. There was my bow, some arrows, my dagger and my treasured Ayleid shortsword. A small pouch containing oil for my armor, as well as some tools for repairs. A heavily-enchanted velvet dress that had been given to me by Ocheeva, wrinkled and unwearable. A set of civilian clothing. A bundle of rags that could mop up blood or serve as makeshift bandages. My alchemy equipment, along with some unused potion bottles and some dried ingredients. A small lump wrapped in burlap that I quickly pushed under the folds of the dress. And a little leather-bound book.

Ann's diary. I picked it up, quietly weighing it in my hands. I didn't know why I had taken it. When I had run to the living quarters to snatch up my possessions, it had been lying there on her bed, and I had just grabbed it. I was glad that I had, now, as I flipped to the section about the kill that had garnered the Brotherhood's attention.

_Sun's Dusk 23, 3E430_

_I did it for his eyes. He didn't seem too bad, really. But something about the color and the shape of his eyes reminded me of Prison._

She always wrote "prison" with a capital when she was referring to her traumatic experiences there. That was all that entry stated, but I recognized the date as that of her arrival at the Sanctuary. It only made sense that a frightened, starving twelve-year old would be brief in such a description. But entries toward the end provided greater insight.

_Mid-Year 6, 3E436_

_By Sithis. I am trembling as I write this. I keep smearing the ink, and I know I'm going to be angry with myself the next time I open this and see all the smudges. It's ugly and incoherent, and it makes me look stupid, like I'm a peasant child who doesn't know how to write._

Even in her own thoughts, she babbled when she got nervous.

_But it almost happened again. Oh, sweet Mother, it almost happened again. I don't know _how. _I was on a contract. We fought. I lost my sword, and when I went for my dagger, he pinned me. I froze. But then…I don't know. Perhaps it was the Dread Father, but _something _told me I was strong enough. I could defeat him. And I just _snapped. _I knocked him over, pinned _him _in the mud. And I pierced his fat black heart._

I remembered that day, remembered walking into that very incident.

_His lungs began to fill with blood, cutting off his speech, but he begged me with his eyes. And I would have laughed if I hadn't been so angry and terrified. No. No, fool, you may not keep your wretched life. I know how this works. I've lived it. You're never the first. And even if you are, you're never the last—unless you _make _it so. And so I did. And the fear was beautiful, but there was the memory of the emptiness…so far removed, yet so menacing. I wonder which will fill my dreams._

_Mid-Year 25, 3E436_

_We've arrived in Leyawiin. We're staying at a fancy inn, the kind where they knock on your door every morning to ask if you want breakfast and for the sheets to be changed. But we've told them to leave us alone. The last thing we need is to draw attention to ourselves. Our room is actually two, with the main room and then an inner chamber. Lily and I have taken the outer room, as we'll be doing the most of the coming and going, Teinaava and Vicente have taken the inner. We had to cover the windows so Vicente doesn't end up burning._

_Mid-Year 27, 3E436_

_I've seen him. Adamus Phillida. I truly thought I would be all right with this, but I'm not. I'm not at all. The memories are all rushing back so fast, and I don't know what to do about them. He was waiting across the square, and as we drew closer, my heart began thundering so that I was sure he would hear it. And I began to feel sick; what if he recognized me? But he didn't. He didn't even look at me. And by some reasoning of pure madness, this made my blood boil. How dare he? How could it be that he should haunt my dreams for six years, but that I was not even a fragment of a memory? And then he mentioned the Dark Brotherhood, and I just couldn't help but make a smart comment. That got his attention._

_Oh, he whirled on me and started shouting, all worried about the nerves of his precious "Nevaeh." Idiot. And then I felt so bad for almost blowing our cover, it was all I could do not to cry for the rest of the day. Lily's in bed now, and I think she's asleep—at least I hope so, as I'm crying now._

The pang of guilt that overtook me each time I read that passage never weakened. I had, in fact, been asleep, oblivious to her turmoil. She had been in such pain, and I hadn't noticed, or even so much as thought about what Phillida's constant presence might be doing to her.

_Sun's Height 30, 3E436_

_I can't sleep. I've been thinking too much lately, and my head is too full. All I can see are the faces. Their eyes watch me constantly—the eyes from Prison, but the eyes from that contract and Leyawiin as well. And I don't know why. I killed them. I watched them die. Why do they still haunt me?_

With a deep, shuddering breath, I closed the book. It had occurred to me some time ago that Antoinetta Marie had not been a weak girl. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Yes, she had her domestic hobbies, but she had been eleven when she had first taken a life. Murder was a laughing matter to her. She had been trained to kill since the age of twelve. She was excellent with a dagger, and she could brew a poison to match any of M'raaj-Dar's concoctions. In short, she was cold and ruthless—and she had the skills to back these traits up. And yet, the mere memory of the Prison guards' violence could instantly cripple her, reduce her to little more than a terrified child.

Would I be haunted by this set of eyes? A shudder ran through me, but it was instantly followed by anger. No, I thought defiantly. This had happened before, I reminded myself, and I had been fine. Both times I had been lucky. I was shaken, but that was quickly fading. Nothing had happened. I'd fought him off. But he could still die.

That last thought crept over me slowly, and when it finally emerged in the front of my consciousness, it did so as a shock. That in itself was startling. I was an assassin. Death was an essential part of my life. Killing was a currency to me. My mind flashed back to my seventeen-year old self, when I first had the thought, _What if I killed them?_ The idea had been so foreign, so strange and so terrifying. And stranger still, that I would feel that way now. Why would I consider anything else?

* * *

It was only a few minutes that passed between me scrambling into my armor and Shadowmere and I flying down the Red Ring Road, ignoring the ice that had grown thicker once the sun went down. I had cut his throat, quickly and quietly, just inside the door. The drunken revelers hadn't even noticed as I had snatched hold of his collar and dragged him into the shadows. I had immediately fled, though, not knowing when one might glance over and see the bloody corpse sprawled across the floor.

The sun had sprung up from the east, shooting out fingers of dawn, when the impact of what I had just done hit me. Jerking too hard on the reins, I pulled Shadowmere to the side of the road, where I slid down from the saddle, panting heavily. By the Nine, I had just murdered a man in cold blood. The words of a dead vampire echoed in my head. _For profit, for pleasure, for the glory of our Dread Father. _This had not been a contract. This had not been to protect someone. This had not even been an accident. I had simply wanted a man dead, and so I killed him. My first kill simply for pleasure. _Bloodlust becomes you…_

Oh gods. I ground my face into my fists. Did he deserve to die? Probably. But the danger was gone. He had backed off the moment I'd drawn my dagger. _You're never the first. And even if you are, you're never the last… _Even so, the possibility of him doing the same to others had been the last thing on my mind. It hadn't even occurred to me until just now. There was no way I could possibly put the "justice" spin on this situation.

"Who _am _I?" I hadn't meant to speak out loud, and the sound of my own voice startled me. Normally, I would have gone to a certain vampire for advice, but that avenue was gone now, destroyed by my own doing. But I thought back to the darkness of the cave on that long ago summer morning, and I felt sick as I realized I already knew what he would say. I scrambled to my feet, swinging myself into the saddle and digging my heels into Shadowmere's sides. It would be best just to keep moving.

* * *

I kept my dagger close, but the Orc showed no signs of aggression, and he silently left when I ordered him out, closing the door behind him. There would be no death here tonight. I breathed a deep sigh of relief, but got up to lock the door regardless, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the grimy mirror on the opposite wall as I did so. I paused, studying it.

Vampirism had taken a toll on me—I scarcely recognized the girl that stared back at me. My face had aged a good ten years, the skin tightening and the bones protruding just a little too far, giving me a gaunt, hungry look. Since when did I have those dark bags under my eyes? And then there was the scar, a long, jagged ridge where Janus Hassildor's nails had ripped the flesh. My long, dark red hair, always my best feature, was gone now. I had cut it off myself, and it now hung limp and dull around my shoulders. And my eyes. I stared into the lifeless orbs, feeling slightly unnerved. They had never really faded back to green; instead, the green and the red had mingled, creating a dull brown that appeared a sickly orange in the right light. I missed my vibrant red eyes.

I turned away, suddenly angry again. The corner of Ann's diary was protruding from my open pack, and I snatched it up, flipping to a marked page.

_Sun's Dawn 16, 3E431_

_What a horrible, horrible day. Yesterday was my birthday, and after my contract last week, I wanted to celebrate. So I made myself a cake. It wasn't even half done baking when Vicente burst into the kitchen and started yelling at me. He said he could smell it from his chambers, and that it was making him sick. I said I was sorry, but he just kept screaming and wouldn't stop until I had taken it out of the oven and thrown the entire thing away. He hates me so much. I don't understand why. I try to leave him alone, but he comes and finds me, and he's always mad about something. Sometimes I just hide up in the empty house so I don't have to see him._

_Hearthfire 8 3E434_

_For the love of the Night Mother. I'm about ready to stab a certain vampire in the eye with this quill. My contract was to kill a man by lacing all the food in his house with poison. He wasn't supposed to be there when I broke in, but he was for some reason, and I had to finish the job with a dagger. The client won't be happy, and I know I forfeited any sort of bonus, but he's dead. Sithis is satisfied. But Vicente nearly tore my head off. It's not the end of the world! It's not my fault! I followed him for days beforehand, and I thought I knew his schedule. He wasn't supposed to be there. But apparently I'm a "disgrace to the Brotherhood." I just don't understand._

I snapped the diary shut. I had come to realize that my father had not been a good person. He had been kind to me yes, but often downright cruel to my sister. But why? What was the difference between us? Because, by some twist of fate, I had greater success with my contracts? Because I reminded him of his long-dead daughter? Because I hadn't been drowning in the aftereffects of a horrible, violent event? But even so, turning me had been downright horrible. I had experienced enhanced physical abilities, and yes, the world had seemed to be comprised of much starker shades of black and white, just as he'd promised. But I had lost all contact with my emotions—with my opinions and feelings and interactions with others. In short, I had lost whatever it was that made me Lily.

That thought still scared me. I was trying to relearn what it meant to be Lily, but I couldn't seem to make sense of it. How could I, when apparently she was downright _soulless_? Because turning back had awakened something else inside me, something that had lay dormant for years. How was I supposed to reconcile being Lily with what it meant to be Elbereth? An assassin and an aspiring priestess. They sounded like two completely opposite people, but they were both me. Or I was both of them. I didn't even know anymore. My head was beginning to ache. I sighed again, and crawled into the rickety little bed. Thinking on this was too distressing, and besides, I had picked up another set of orders and needed to be in top form the next day. I tried to put it out of my mind, but it was several hours before I dropped off into a fitful sleep.

* * *

I swore as soon as I pulled the covering away from the mine's entrance. It was, in fact, completely flooded. Luckily, Teinaava had taught me to swim my first year in the Brotherhood, as soon as I began moving about again and the weather turned warm, but I quickly pushed that thought from my mind. I stepped forward tentatively, chewing on my lip as I decided how to approach this. I could strip down before swimming through it and leave myself vulnerable, or I could leave my armor on and risk ruining it and also limiting my mobility. In the end, I chose the latter. Better not to risk a fatal wound, I thought as I plunged in.

The icy water was a shock, but I managed to doggedly keep moving my arms and legs. The sodden leather threatened to drag me down, but I pushed through, sporadically coming up for air as I slugged along. How far did this passage go? I suddenly began to worry that I would eventually run out of air pockets, but then I emerged in an open chamber. I splashed onto the solid ground, quickly glancing around. It was empty—not a good sign. That meant—

"The prey approaches." I whirled, but the hand had already clamped around my ankle, yanking my back down into the water. My lungs screamed as I caught a faceful of water, but I still managed to jerk free my dagger and stab blindly as my feet spun over my head. I opened my eyes, coming face to face with the bleary sight of a grim-faced Argonian. A slicing pain burst along my side, but I brought my legs up, kicking into her and pushing off towards the surface. I gasped as my head broke free frantically paddling towards the water's edge, but I felt a grip around my ankle again. Luckily, I still held my dagger, and I swung around, stabbing straight down into the water, and the sudden release of pressure informed me I had made contact.

I quickly hauled myself up and rolled away, scrambling toward the cavern wall. If I didn't get the fight away from the water, she could take advantage of my limited mobility, or even simply hold me under until I drowned. My target came charging out of the water brandishing a longsword, a head taller than me and twice as thick. I felt my eyes widen as I drew my own sword. I was clearing as a disadvantage here, no matter how I looked at it.

We met with a clashing of blades, and I gritted my teeth as she pushed against me. She was _strong_. I twisted my blade away and sliced it right back at her in a maneuver that Vicente himself had taught me, but she parried it easily. Too easily. With a sinking feeling, I realized that she had been formally trained. The fight continued, neither of us managing to gain any real ground over the other, but I felt myself quickly tiring. She was proving to be a worthy opponent. And then, she nicked my shoulder, and I winced, allowing her to slam me and knock me to the ground. _Oh no…_

She stood over me, her face breaking into a grin, her sword aimed at my throat. "Give up," she gloated. I glared up at her.

"Afraid I cannot, when the Dread Father still has need of your soul." The line came out of nowhere, and startled me as I spoke it. Very rarely did I ever interact with my targets.

"What?" Her face suddenly froze, and she hesitated, drawing back ever so slightly. And I took the opening. I still held my sword, and I rammed it up through a chink in her armor. Her jaw dropped open, and her eyes glazed over, but not before something else shone through: a dark surge of anger. Her blood mingled with the water that soaked my armor and she dropped. Dead.

I hefted myself to my feet, nearly crying out as I did so. Blood leaked from the tear in my armor at my shoulder, and when I looked down, I saw that she had managed to rip a hole in my abdomen as well. I shuddered, steeling myself and forcing my breathing to slow. No time for panic. My wounds simply needed to be dealt with, and I was the only one who could do it.

The healing spell closed up the wounds enough that I could swim out, and I collapsed outside the entrance for several minutes before I was able to rouse myself and peel out of my soaked armor. I managed to build a sputtering fire, and I huddled next to it, wrapped in my blanket as I sewed shut my wounds. When that was finished, I used more magic until the sharp pain faded to a dull ache. Good enough for now. I sighed, and moved on to my armor.

I stitched the tear near my shoulder easily enough, but the body was an entirely different matter. Her claws had shredded it, completely destroying the seam. The entire panel would need to be replaced. I growled in frustration, throwing it down to the ground. Shadowmere looked up, startled, but then went back to trying to nibble at the lifeless vegetation. This was wrong, all of it.

Something was bugging me about this contract, something I just couldn't place a finger on. Maybe it was the fact that I knew I had nearly been bested; although I had been trying not to think about it, I had come close to death today. Or maybe it was the fact that it didn't bother me. It would have been fitting: a murderer's death for a murderer.

That thought hit me like a wave. Tears sprung up in my eyes, and before I knew it, I was crying, barking sobs tearing free as I tried to stifle them. I was a murderer. I said the words to myself for the first time. Repeated them. Not "assassin." Not "avenger." Murderer. Raw and ugly.

When did death begin to come so easily? How did I go from a moment of desperation to…this? I dragged a hand across my damp eyes. Little by little, I though miserably. It slowly took over, until…

Until I slaughtered my entire family. And the starkness of that thought instantly silenced me. Whatever webs the traitor had woven, whatever the Black Hand had ordered, the fact still remained that I had done it. Wrath of Sithis be damned. I could have refused, and dealt with whatever consequences came. But I didn't.

Silence.

This was really what it had come to. This was who I had become.

With a trembling hand, I reached into my pack and withdrew Ann's diary.

_Last Seed 24 3E436_

_I keep waiting for the regret. For the fear. For the feeling of being used. But it never comes. In two days, he'll be back from his Black Hand business, and he promised he'll see me again. And the strangest part is, I think I believe him._

_I know I need to be wary. We are not what one would consider "good people," after all. But there is something about him that makes me think perhaps he actually is. What kind of assassin takes a starving, broken child off the streets and gives her a better life, even if it's a life she's not very good at—a life she doesn't deserve? When the wealthy do it, they call it philanthropy. And when assassins do it? Well—I guess that's how you know the kind of person that assassin is. And although I think he'd rather die than admit it, Lucien knows who he is._

_And that's what scares me. Lucien may be good, but I am not. I give coins to beggars. I'm kind to animals. I love my family. But there is darkness in a corner of my mind, and when Sithis speaks, I obey. I have obeyed since I was eleven years old. Lucien looks at me as though I am filled with light, and a part of me almost starts to believe it. But I know what I'm capable of, and I know what I've done. And if I am evil, I will have no choice but to live with that._

I bowed my head. _If I am evil…_

"Sweet Kynareth," I whispered. "Thy blessings of nature are a gift. I, your servant, do humbly pray…" I trailed off. Somehow, the familiar words felt thick on my tongue. If I was evil, attempting to curry favor with the goddess would do me no good. In the war between Aedra and Daedra, I had taken another side entirely. Regret would accomplish nothing. _I want out. _The thought silently screamed inside me. _Too late, _came the sobering reply. A disgraced monster had her place, and nothing could change that. Perhaps the girl who had fled Cheydinhal all those lonely months ago would have struggled to rationalize, to plead innocence, but somewhere out there on the empty road, I had grown up. I had dug my grave, and I would now lie in it.

Slowly, I stood. Dawn was breaking, and for a moment, I stood taking it in as the pale rays crept closer. Then I turned and kicked dirt over the smoldering ashes of my fire, and shrugged into my ruined armor. I was riding for Leyawiin. I could find an armorer to repair it there. "Let's go, Shadowmere." I quickly bridled her and mounted, and then we turned to face the south.


	28. Chapter 25: A Kiss Before Dying

Chapter 25: A Kiss Before Dying

There was nothing more cruel than a false spring, I decided as I halted Shadowmere in front of the Bay Roan Stables. We had spent the past few days southeast of the Imperial City, and the weather had been sunny and balmy. However, the cold had set back in the night before, and a gust of wind snatched at my cloak as I dismounted, causing me to shiver.

The stablehand hurried over to take her from me, but I waved him away. "She bites," I explained as I looped the reins over her head and led her forward. He nodded in understanding, instead opening the gate as we passed through and propping it shut behind us. I considered unsaddling her, but instead, I simply loosened her girth and removed her bit, lashing the ends of the reins to the saddle. Her ears were lying flat back against her head, and she had a gleam in her eyes that said she was feeling ornery. The last thing I needed was an angry stable owner announcing that she had taken a chunk out of one of her patron's horses—or one of her employees. Besides, a distinctly uneasy feeling was prickling the back of my neck, and I wanted to make sure I could make a clean escape if needed.

Maybe it was just being in Bravil again that had set me on edge, I mused as I crossed the swinging wooden bridge to the gates. The city that had nurtured my vengeance had never spelled good things for me, as I seemed to lose a piece of myself every time I travelled there. Fear. Anger. Loss. Despair. The crumbling buildings reeked of these, and the longer I stayed, the longer they seemed to leech into my very soul.

It was late in the day, but it was still sunset as I approached the Lucky Old Lady, as the days were growing longer. I would prefer to make the kill in darkness, but my orders said that my target could turn up any time between six in the evening and one in the morning. So I slipped out of my cloak and plastered myself up against one of the buildings beneath the stairs, trying to blend into the shadows. I considered using my birthsign, but I would only have about an hour, and if my target didn't show up in that window, I would have wasted it. The orders had said that the guards would look the other way if it came to a fight, but I wasn't willing to rule out the possibility of using it to escape. So instead, I waited.

The sun disappeared, but there was no sign of the Bosmer. Masser and Secunda were both full, just as they'd been the night I'd returned from prison, and the sky was cloudless, allowing them to bathe the city in a clear, cold light. The stars, too, were pinpricks of brightness against the velvet black of the night. I stared out across the square, remembering trekking across it on my way to school each morning. If I leaned out around the corner, I could actually see my old house. But the moonlight would make me far too visible, so I stayed in the shadows. I shivered, clutching my arms across my chest as I attempted to keep my teeth from chattering. It was so cold.

A flash of movement caught my eye, along with the dim light of a torch bobbing along. I tensed, crouching as the figure appeared. From my vantage point, I could see that it was male, Bosmer, and dressed in fine clothing. My target? I hesitated, wanting to make sure. But then he paused at the foot of the statue, and I heard the faint murmer of his voice. That was it then.

Quickly craning an arm around, I nocked an arrow. My aim wasn't true enough to drop him with one shot, but I could cripple him, and finish him off at a close range. It would be foolish to try to creep up behind him—with an open space like that, there was too much that could go wrong. More likely than not, he would discover my presence before I even made it halfway. I squinted, aiming for the center of his back, and let the arrow fly.

There was a gasp of pain, and the torch fell from his hand. But instead of dropping to the ground in agony, he whirled and whipped out his own bow. Oh no. Not good. I began to sprint across the square, but all of a sudden, something slammed into my back, and the sky filled my vision. For half a moment, I was confused, but then I caught sight of something out of the corner of my eye at the same moment the stinging filled my shoulder. He had actually knocked me off my feet with a single shot.

The fear reared, adrenaline zinging through my veins as I hurled my weight over, sharply rolling to the right onto my uninjured shoulder—at least my sword arm was uncrippled. It was just in time, too, as another arrow sharply buried itself right where I had lay. I sprung to my feet, charging straight at him. He hurled his bow aside as I approached, instead drawing a dagger—which I narrowly avoided running straight into.

"Ha!" He grunted as he adjusted his aim mid-strike, managing to carve deep into my bicep. A cry burst from my lips before I could stifle it. I stumbled, but I swiped at him as I went down. He danced away, but I lunged from my position sprawled on the ground, and managed to catch him across his unarmored knee. Blood blossomed against green silk, and he faltered, giving me a chance to rise. He, too, had drawn a sword, and we began to duel.

I had encountered some formidable opponents in the past several months, and my body bore the scars to show it. But never before had I been pitted against a fighter like Ungolim. He possessed a feline grace combined with the strength of an ox, and he was clearly a master swordsman, putting even Vicente Valtieri to shame. It was all I could do to parry his blows, which rained down with increasing ferocity—let alone get in an offensive strike.

It came out of nowhere, but suddenly the thought that I would not win this fight sprang out of nowhere. He would wear me down, and then make the killing strike. It was such a stark knowledge that somehow it was almost comforting. After so many years of uncertainty, I would finally be at peace. Would that really be so bad? I thought of my guilt, of my lost family that I secretly wasn't even so sure I should be defending anymore. But then I thought of the traitor, the unknown phantom who haunted the Brotherhood's ranks. The one who turned life—and death—into a mere game. Anger surged through me, and I stopped fighting.

He had thoroughly expected me to parry, and when I let my blade fall to my side, my body turning away, his momentum continued to carry him forward. He stumbled, and I spun, burying my blade deep into his unprotected back. A gasping cry tore from him, and he fell forward, yanking the blade right out of my hand. I wrangled it free, and prodded him over with my foot. His eyes were bright with some heated but indiscernible emotion as I loomed over him. His lips moved, struggling to form words as I prepared to make the killing blow.

"Sweet Mother," he gurgled. I froze, just as that Argonian hunter back in the winter had at the mention of Dark Brotherhood supremacy. "What did you just say?" I demanded.

"NO!" A dark blur appeared out of nowhere, and the force of a runaway horse slammed into me, knocking me to the ground. I gasped, skittering backward on the ground, but my assailant had turned away, and was knelt over the fallen Bosmer as I rose. "Dead." Lucien Lachance turned to face me, and suddenly, I was pinned up against the side of the building, my feet dangling inches off the ground.

"I thought I could get here in time!" the Speaker roared. His face was scarlet, and full of throbbing veins. "I thought I could stop you!" I tried to speak, but his hands were clenched around my collar, and my armor was cutting into my throat. "By_ Sithis_, what have you done? What _madness_ has claimed you?" His words were punctuated by slamming my shoulders into the wall. I frantically kicked, but my blows were lost in the folds of his dark robes. "You have _betrayed _me," he hissed, "betrayed the _Brotherhood_. You _wretch_, you are about to _pay_ for what you've…" His voice suddenly trailed off as his dark eyes met mine, searching. "You…have no idea what I speak of, do you." It came as a statement, not a question, and he suddenly released his hold. My legs gave out as they struck the ground, and I sprawled at his feet, coughing heavily as air flooded back into my lungs. When I was once again able to manage gasping breaths, I looked up at him, glowering.

"_No_, you _bastard_." It came out as a snarl. He stared down at me with an expression of horror, and my shock faded into fear. What in Oblivion was going on?

"By Sithis," he muttered. He glanced over his shoulder, then reached out, offering me a hand. "We should get inside. We have much to discuss." I hesitated. "Please, Sister." And then I saw something in his eyes that sent ice through my stomach. Fear. The always cool and collected Lucien Lachance was afraid. And suddenly, I flashed back to the Sanctuary, where that same emotion had shone in another formidable assassin's eyes. I took the proffered hand and allowed him to haul me to my feet. He once again knelt by the body, then stood and gestured down the alleyway. "This way."

We emerged on the other side and hurried along the street, pausing at a house where Lucien unlocked the door. "Inside. Hurry." It was dark, but Lucien brushed past me, obviously having been there before. There was the flare of a match, and then a candle burst to life, dimly illuminating the room. I glanced around. It was a modest home, a little bit shabby and rather barren, but neat and clean. "You're injured." I glanced over at the arrow still stuck in my shoulder, and at my torn bicep.

"It's fine." I tried to jerk away, but winced at the pain. He grabbed hold of my uninjured shoulder with a frown.

"Hold still." He snapped the arrow off, and I gritted my teeth together, tears forming in the corners of my eyes. "Are you all right?"

"I'm _fine._" I forced the words out between my teeth.

"You need to get out of this armor." He stepped away, and gestured for me to stand up. "I'll help you get your arm free, and then I will step out so you can change."

"No. I said I was fine," I snapped defiantly.

"Silencer, we do _not _have time for this." He voice had become a snake once again, and I remembered all the unanswered questions. So I stood up slowly and allowed him to unbuckle my armor. I wriggled my right arm free with little difficulty, but when he tried to tug my left arm out, there was a ripping sensation, and I cried out again. He cursed under his breath. "Hold still. This will hurt." He spoke an incantation, and then the pain intensified. I shrieked and pulled away, clutching my useless arm to my chest as I stared at him. He held up a barbed, wicked-looking object. "Daedric arrowhead. It had gone nearly the entire way through." I nodded slowly, and he cleared his throat. "Let me know when you're done." And then he glided out into the hallway.

I shrugged the rest of the way out of my armor and managed to dress in my civilian clothes. There was still an arrow shaft protruding from my shoulder, though, and I grimaced as I tugged my shirt over it. I heard the sound of a throat being cleared from just outside the room, and I sighed. "You can come in."

He reappeared, holding rags and a potion bottle. "Sit." He gestured toward one of the chairs at the table. I slowly approached and sunk into the chair, but I was tense, ready to rise and fight or run if needed. He bundled the rags on either side of the arrow shaft, then gripped the top of it. "This will hurt," he warned again. I steeled myself and he yanked it free. My vision swam for a moment, but he was pouring the potion onto the rest of the rags and wrapping them around my shoulder. He then did the same to the wound further down my arm, and then began to chant. When he was finished, the pain had lessoned, but then I realized I had lost all other sensation in my arm as well. I frowned at him.

"It was a numbing agent," he explained. "The pain will return in a few hours. I've healed it as best as I can, but you will want to see a healer eventually." I nodded. "Now." He rubbed his temples in a gesture of frustration, but then his hand fell away and he met my gaze square on. "Do you know who you just killed?" I swallowed nervously.

"His name was Ungolim. That was what your orders said." The Speaker sighed, slowly shaking his head. He was gripping his temples again.

"That was the Listener. You just killed the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood." My heart nearly stopped.

"What?" The blood was rushing through my veins far too fast. "I…I don't understand…" Lucien planted his palms on the table as he leaned over to glower down at me.

"For the past several months, your dead drops have gone untouched. The contracts unfulfilled. And now, I know why. Because you have been systematically killing off the members of the Black Hand."

"Wait, _what?_" My voice had turned thick as I, too, rose. I could feel myself hyperventilating. "I don't understand. How is that possible? I don't understand!" I struggled to control my voice as the pitch increased exponentially.

"J'Ghasta. Shaleez. Alval Uvani. Havilstein Hoar-Blood. Speakers and Silencers all. And now the Listener!" He leaned across the table, grim and menacing.

"Lucien, I don't understand! How did this happen?" I begged. "I swear to you, I had no idea. I followed the instructions in the dead drops!" He sighed, sinking back down into his chair.

"Ah, yes. The dead drops." He gave a short, unamused chortle. "I thought myself to be so clever. When I gave you the order for the Purification, I saw the murder in those red eyes of yours. I thought it best for you to have as little contact with me as possible." He shook his head. "So I said to myself, 'She's a capable woman, if I leave the orders to be picked up she can find them.' Little did I know that would prove to be the most foolish decision of my life." He met my gaze again. "The traitor intercepted them. I don't know how it happened, but one day we receive word that a Speaker has been killed, followed shortly by his Silencer. And so on, until _my _Silencer is observed asking about Hoar-Blood, and a day later he is found dead." Another short laugh. "In the Black Hand, shadows speak. And when I heard you were riding for Bravil, I knew exactly who your target was. I made all haste, but you know very well how that ended."

I sat in stunned silence. All those months on the road, _find the traitor, _and he _(or she)_ had been one step ahead of me the entire time. All that time I thought I was hunting him _(or her)_, he _(or she) _had been manipulating me. "Ten strong," I murmured, "seven clear, three remain. Which one is the traitor?"

"I'm sorry?" I didn't even realize I had spoken out loud. I raised my gaze to Lucien's, then allowed it to flit back down again.

"When Vicente heard about the…Purification," I explained, the wretched word itself still foul on my tongue, "he said the traitor had to be part of the Black Hand. It couldn't be Ungolim, because he said he could have destroyed us already if he was, and it wasn't me. Vicente said it wasn't you. And it couldn't have been the four dead now. That leaves three, so which one is it?" When I looked up at Lucien, he was staring at me with a peculiar expression. "What?"

"You…told…Vicente Valtieri…about the Purification?" His voice rose in volume at the last bit. "I told you to speak of our meeting to no one! To disobey an order from a superior is to invoke the wrath of Sithis!"

"Yes!" I snapped back. "He was my _father_. Don't you quote the Tenets to me! You said to keep silent about the fact that I was coming to meet you, not what you said at that meeting! And when _you _ordered me to _kill _my _family_, I went to him to ask what I should do." All the guilt I had been shouldering was suddenly replaced with white hot rage. He stared at me with an incredulous expression.

"And he let you go through with it?" His voice had gone weak.

"He said I had to. That we were all dead anyway if I refused. He said I needed to play along for the time being, and find the traitor. And that the fate of the Brotherhood was at stake." The Speaker had gone silent, his face buried in his hand. I mimicked the posture. The minutes stretched out between us.

"I shouldn't have done it," I said suddenly, bitterly. "We could have fought. Forced the traitor's hand. He would have had to reveal himself."

"No." Lucien's voice was hard. "Vicente was right. You had to do what you did. I'm the one who shouldn't have given the order in the first place." His face suddenly filled with anguish. "To put you in that position was bad enough. But I…" He abruptly turned away, and suddenly his fist slammed into the wall.

"I spent twenty-four years of my life with them," he moaned, pacing back and forth. "Vicente Valtieri was the greatest man I ever knew; he made me into a better man. I _recruited _Teinaava, Ocheeva, Telaendril, Antoinetta..." He drew in a deep shuddering breath and I froze.

"Yes." I bit the syllable out. "Let's talk about Antoinetta." He snapped to attention as my voice rose, its weight filling the room. His eyes had gone wide as he stared at me across the room. I advanced toward him.

"How could you?" I growled. "How could you _use _her like that?"

"I didn't." He said the words simply, his eyes filled with sadness. His head jerked to the side as I struck him.

"Liar!" I roared. "She _told _me what happened." I turned, snatching the diary out of my pack. "Here." I thrust it at him, its pages falling open to a well-marked place. "Read it for yourself." His eyes quickly scanned the pages.

"By Sithis." His voice had gone hoarse, and he abruptly turned away. I stood, arms folded, staring daggers into his back. "How can I explain?" He turned back to face me, and in that same motion swept his hood back. It was the first time I had seen his head uncovered. To my surprise, his inky black hair was long, nearly reaching his waist, and neatly tied back. I had expected it to be short.

"She was twelve when I met her. She was twelve years old and terrified, and she…she was just a _kid_." His voice nearly broke on the last word. "For years, I would see her at the Sanctuary from time to time, and I swear to you, I didn't have a single thought about her. But then one day…" He faltered. "One day, I looked at her, and she was a woman. And she was beautiful." He took another deep breath. "I wouldn't have done anything about it, though. I knew her story, and I was her superior, and it would have felt _wrong_." He paused. "But then, she killed Adamus Phillida. And just like that, the timid little child was gone."

"And then, out of nowhere, she says she loves me," he continued, more to himself than to me at that point. "What was I to do? I was twenty-six years older than her. Twenty-six!" He whirled to face me. "The year she was born was the same year I became part of the Black Hand. What was I to do?" He shook his head sadly. "And then I had the thought, why did it matter so much to me? She was a grown woman, she could make her own choices, and she was choosing _me_." He went quiet for a moment. "And then I realized. It was because I loved her." He met my eyes, and the anguish there nearly broke my heart. And I realized that he was telling the truth. "You say I used her, but I was afraid of doing just that."

He shook his head. "What could have come of it, anyhow? I'm a leader in a very dangerous, very illegal organization. I spend most of my time travelling. I live in an abandoned fort. I couldn't have given her the kind of life she deserved. But I loved her, and she loved me. And somehow, that in itself was enough." A faint smile briefly came to his face, but then it was replaced by stormclouds.

"I was going to see her as soon as I got back. I had to leave for a Black Hand meeting. But when I got there, they said the traitor…" His breathing suddenly shortened. "By the Dread Father." He began to gasp. "I sent her to her grave!" And then Lucien Lachance actually began to sob.

I stood frozen in shock. The man that stood before me bore no resemblance to the Speaker I had had come to know over the years. But he quickly regained control, and I was left wondering if I'd only imagined it.

"Tell me, Lily." His eyes were bloodshot, but his voice was perfectly still. "When you told Vicente…was he…" He took a deep breath. "Was he terribly disappointed in me?" Shame was etched deep into his features. I paused, thinking. I honestly couldn't remember. But then I recalled how he had been so serene even as I plunged a dagger into his chest. I winced, trying to block the memory.

"No." And I was certain of my answer. "No, not at all. He understood the position you were put in." And as I spoke, I finally understood. I understood that Vicente Valtieri had been a flawed man. He had been warped by a maddening disease, and he had been cruel and unfair at times. But he had loved me, and he had truly cared about us as a Family. Flawed, yes, but a good man just the same, at least in his own way.

"And…when her time came…" His voice was little more than a ghost now. "Were you gentle?" His eyes were pleading as they fixed on me, and I felt sick as I considered the situation from his point of view, that he was facing his lover's killer. I took a deep breath.

"It was over before she realized it was happening," I whispered. He nodded slowly, solemnly, and I realized tears were beginning to prick at my own eyes. _Ten strong, seven clear, three to go. Which one? _"Lucien?" He nodded in acknowledgement. "There are three possible suspects left. Who are they? Which one is it?" And instantly, calm, controlled Lucien was back. No hint of the man who had loved Antoinetta remained.

"There are now four others, but the ones that concern us are Belisarius Arius, Arquen, and Mathieu Bellamont. Banus Alor is the newest addition, so he may be ruled out." That nervous look was back in his eyes, and I felt the fear returning.

"So which one could it be?" I was insistent. He hesitated.

"I do not know," he said finally. "But we can find out. Go to the next dead drop the traitor had indicated. Someone will come to leave the next orders. And from there, you know what you need to do." His eyes narrowed at the end. "They know, though, that you were following orders. They believe me to be the traitor, and hunt me as we speak." The fear that coursed through me at that statement was startling—fear for my last Brother. And I realized, in that moment, that I had forgiven him for his role in the Purification. He had been in the same position as I had been, and he and I were both victims just as much as we were guilty.

"What will you do?" I tried to keep the quaver out of my voice, but it broke through all the same.

"You can find me at Applewatch, the farm where you killed that old Draconis hag. I should be safe there." He paused. "Make all haste. With the Listener gone and so few remaining, the traitor will not fear to act. The fate of the Brotherhood dangles by a thread." I nodded, quickly cramming my scattered belongings back into my pack.

"I'll leave right away." This was it. The quest my father had set me on approached the climax. Do or die. Now or never. And somehow, it was comforting to finally be able to _do something._ The time to act had arrived. No more waiting, no more playing the traitor's game.

"Sister." I paused in my preparations, turning to Lucien. "May Sithis walk with you." And then I surprised myself by throwing my arms around him. For a moment, he stiffened, but then he returned the embrace, allowing me to catch a scent of dark, underground places and starless nights, laced heavily with tobacco.

"And with you, Brother." I quietly collected my pack and slipped out the door.

* * *

**A/N: So fun fact-the first time I played through this quest, and I had just leveled up to the point where enemies could knock you over with bows, and that's exactly what Ungolim did. The difficulty was low and I had full health, but I thought he'd killed me, and I kind of had a minor freakout because I hadn't saved in a while. Oh, good times. **

**I hate to be that girl, but some feedback would be much appreciated. I've had this portion of the story planned for a long time, and now that it's actually written I'm more nervous than ever about it. I THINK it turned out the way I wanted, but I want to hear what you think. Thank you so much!**


	29. Chapter 26: This Place Is Death

Chapter 26: This Place Is Death

I slammed my heels into Shadowmere's sides as she faltered. "Come on, girl! Up, _up!_" I cried into her ears. She did as requested, picking up speed, but slowed again as she stumbled, her legs threatening to give out. "For Sithis' sake!" I kicked my feet free of the stirrups and slid to the ground. "Come on. Let's go." I looped the reins over her head and broke into a run. She trotted alongside me, shaking her head with a snort. It was mid afternoon, less than a day since we'd left Bravil, and we were already west of Skingrad. She had seemed to sense my urgency, and once we were clear of the stables and I'd given her her head, she'd snatched the bit in her teeth and taken off, the miles streaking past beneath her feet. Now, however, her chest was streaked with white lather, and her breathing came in laborious gasps. If I pushed her any further, I'd risk running her into the ground, so we ran together.

Just as Lucien had promised, the pain had returned shortly after we'd hit the Red Ring Road. I held the crippled arm close to my chest, teeth gritted against the pain that flashed through it with each step. I'd stopped only once, to let Shadowmere drink and to wriggle back into my armor, despite the fact that it was still torn. My shirt had been fashioned into a sling, but it was still jarred with each stride, and I knew pretty soon I'd need to attend to it further. Right now, though, I needed to run.

When Shadowmere's breathing had slowed and she held her head high and alert again, I swung astride, and we completed the rest of the distance in record time. As we slowed to a trot outside Horse Whisperer Stables, I vaulted off while she was still moving, shoving the reins at the stablehand who came to greet us. "She bites. Don't take off her bridle," I panted. "Seriously, just stick her in a corner of the corral and leave her there." And then I strode through the gates as fast as my stiff legs would take me, stripping away my makeshift sling as I went. The pain flared up as I did so, but I wasn't about to risk looking weak in front of the traitor.

I picked my way alongside the wall behind the pond, nearly losing a boot to the mud in the process. The barrel was tucked into a shadowy alcove, and as I reached it, I frantically tore the lid off. Nothing. I gave a small sigh of relief. I would catch the wretch yet. I settled back into the shadows to lie in wait, dropping my pack off my shoulders to the ground. I managed to open it with my good hand, rummaging around until I found what I was looking for—a healing potion. I drank it down quickly, sticking the empty bottle back into my pack as I waited for it to take effect.

The eastern sky was beginning to pale by the time the pain had dissipated. I moved it in tiny circles, testing it out. It was all but useless, but it would hold up if it came to a fight. And just as the sun breached the horizon, a figure appeared in the dawn, heading straight for the pond. I held my breath as it untied a small raft from a dock and pushed off into the water with a long pole. I heard a few whistled notes of a tune as he made his way across—for I could now see that it was male. He dragged the raft partially up onto the shore and threaded his way through the tall, dew-ridden grass toward the barrel, still whistling as he went. And then the tune was abruptly cut off as he stopped short, catching sight of me as I let out a sharp gasp.

By the Nine. It was Enilroth. My baby brother stood before me, just as if the past four years had never happened. But the boy who had tearfully fled to his room on the long ago night that I'd last seen him was gone; in his place stood a man. He was _tall_, standing nearly half a head above me. Where had he gotten that height from? Our mother had been on the taller side, as was I, but Nedhel had been downright short. He'd clearly gotten his muscle from our father, though, I noted as I took in the size of his shoulders. What had he been _doing _to build up that kind of bulk? I made a move to reach for him, to embrace him—but then he spoke.

"I'm…I'm sorry." I let my arms fall back to my sides. Of course. My hood shielded my face, and he saw only a sinister vagrant, not his long-lost sister. "Look, I don't…I don't want any trouble. Honest!" His voice! When had it gotten so deep? When I'd last seen him, at fourteen, it had still been a child's voice. But then the questions came bursting through the haze of shock. What was he _doing _here? And how, for the love of the Night Mother, had he fallen in with the traitor? "It was this man, a man in a robe. He paid me," he continued. His hands were slightly raised in a defensive posture. "He said all I had to do was put this stuff in the barrel, and he'd give me some good coin. I mean, I'm only an apprentice. I needed the money. Thirty septims up front and fifty to follow? It was a good a deal. At least…at least it seemed like it at the time. Please, just…just take this stuff and go!" His voice rising in panic, he dropped a heavy leather sack and a folded piece of parchment and began backing away.

"Stop," I growled. He froze instantly, and my stomach gave a twist at the sight of the fear in his eyes. I forced myself to take a deep, silent breath. "I need you to be straight with me, and we'll both walk away from this unscathed. Understood?" It didn't feel right threatening him. He nodded rapidly, eyes fastened on the ground.

"I'll tell you anything. Anything you want to know." His gaze flitted up for a brief second, then immediately dropped.

"Who do you work for? How did you get this assignment?" I continued speaking in a low half-growl, terrified that he would somehow recognize my voice.

"No, I don't work for him!" His voice was full of pleading as he shook his head. "I was up at the lighthouse yesterday, and he called out to me from the cellar. I think he lives down there. Or at least he did; he said he was leaving Anvil. And that he had some unfinished business, and all I had to do was drop a payment off in the barrel behind the pond. He threw me a coin purse and said there'd be more where that came from if I followed through. I swear, I…I didn't know…I didn't mean to…"

"Tell me about this man." I abruptly cut him off. If the traitor truly was leaving Anvil, there was no time for this. That meant he was probably going after Lucien. My stomach suddenly tightened, and I willed myself not to be sick. My brother took a deep breath.

"I don't really know, I couldn't see his face. He was standing in the shadows, and he wore black robes." He shrugged. "He was, I don't know, average height I guess? Maybe Colovian?" He shrugged again. "I'm really sorry, that's all I know. But…" He hesitated.

"Go on."

"The cellar, it's…" He hesitated again. I waited patiently. "There was this…smell coming from it. Like…like something had, I don't know, died down there." His lips twisted into a grimace. "And I was talking to Ulfgar—that's the lighthouse keeper—and he said he's heard…screams. Coming from down there." He fidgeted. "That's all I know. I…I don't know if that helps or not…" I nodded.

"Go." I pointed back towards town. He turned to leave, obviously trying to show a façade of calm, but I had never seen anyone walk so fast in my life. On a sudden impulse, I called after him. "Wait." I saw his back go rigid, and I knew the dread that had to be washing over him. He turned back to me, his features gone stiff in fear. "If you see that man again, _stay away from him_." I put a menacing weight behind my words. "I don't care what he said about paying you. Stay away from that lighthouse. And if he approaches you, run. Go straight to the guards. Tell them that he's threatening you, that you saw him steal something, _anything. _Do _not _go _anywhere_ near him." He quickly bobbed his head. I drew in a deep breath, and took a gamble. "And if you have family," I continued, "make sure they're on the lookout for him, too." He nodded once more, but no shift in his features told me anything about the fate of our mother. He began to pole his raft across the water, not looking back once. Shouldering my pack once more, I broke into a jog, speeding up as I made for the lighthouse.

The lighthouse was located on a peninsula, a short ways outside of town. There were no signs of life as I approached, picking my way around the side to the cellar door. It was locked, as expected, but when I tried to jam a lockpick into the keyhole, I let out a groan. The lock was a specific kind specifically crafted to be impossible to pick. My time in the Thieves Guild had taught me as much, and I knew any efforts would be futile. So instead, I charged back up the overgrown path to the main part of the lighthouse.

The little grey-haired man was sipping from a teacup when I barged through the door, and he started violently, sloshing it all down his front. "Hey, now!" he protested. "What's the meaning of this?" I didn't have time for pleasantries.

"The cellar key. Hand it over. Now." I snapped the words out at him, but his face twisted into a scowl.

"Oh?" he said mockingly. "Now tell me, just why should I give it to you?" He had risen out of his chair, and I sprang forward, barreling into him and throwing him back against the wall. The teacup dropped and shattered, bits of porcelain skittering in every direction.

"Because the Dark Brotherhood has need of it, dog," I hissed. The Blade of Woe danced dangerously close to his neck. "And because if you don't, I'll slice open your throat." His eyes, already round with fear, widened even further.

"The…the Dark Brotherhood? O-okay, here it is!" As he fumbled with his key ring, the Tenets popped into my head, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and if this didn't qualify as desperate, then I didn't know what did. Besides, I thought grimly, I doubted that the "wrath of Sithis" even existed, if I could kill twelve family members and still not face it. The number made my stomach churn, and I forced myself to focus on the present. "Here, take it, just take it!" He was shoving it into my hand. "Just please, please don't hurt me! I swear, I'll keep quiet. I won't say a word!"

"Good." Maybe it would have been wiser to kill him on the spot, but instead, I fled back outside. The key slipped into the lock smoothly, and it cranked open, allowing the darkness to pour out into the day.

I instantly could tell what Enilroth had meant about the smell. It was a sharp scent of decay wafting up from the depths, causing me to gag. Not even the Imperial sewers smelled this bad. I crept forward carefully, silent as shadow. In my haste, it hadn't truly occurred to me that I was about to come face-to face with the traitor until that moment. Heart pounding, I slowly made my way down the moisture-coated stairs, and I finally made it to the bottom, where a single candle flickered. I rounded the corner and froze.

There lay a dog, dead and completely gutted. For a moment, I simply stared at it. I had seen plenty of death, but there was something just so _off_ about it that was unnerving. Was that the source of the smell? It seemed too powerful, especially since the dog looked relatively fresh. I continued to make my way forward, but then something bumped against my leg in the dark. I started, leaping to the side, something cold and rubbery brushing against my face as I did so. I glanced down to see the tail of a small rat skittering away, but then I turned to see what I'd bumped into, and my jaw dropped.

It was a girl. She was long dead, her corpse naked and casually tossed atop a cabinet. Her glassy eyes were open, unseeing, and her mouth was open in what I could only assume was a final scream. The back of my neck began to prickle, and my breaths shortened. This was not right. There was _nothing_ right about this. I turned away, only to see a pile of mutilated sheep carcasses. For crying out loud, was there no end to the corpses?

But I shook it off and pushed further in. There was a bed, a table, and—oh gods. The workbench was covered in gore, and piled high with body parts. Human parts. My vision began to swim, and I felt strangely lightheaded. I made a living off of death. I had seen a lot, but this—this was something else entirely. Necromancy, perhaps? That dank little hole seemed to be pressing down on my, threatening to choke the life out of me. I glanced down to see that the floor was slick with blood. I started to retch, and that was when I heard the growling.

My head snapped over to the corner of the room, where something had begun slamming into the door there. Not good. I drew my sword and hurried over, but it was locked, and I was forced to resheath it as I withdrew my pouch of lockpicks. I broke a grand total of seven, as it was a fairly easy lock, but difficult to pick with the door constantly shuddering as _whatever _that was pounded against it. In the end, to my luck, one of the tumblers stuck at just the right moment, and I was able to quickly pop open the other two.

The door came flying at my face, knocking me over flat on my back as a crazed dog came hurtling through. I threw up both my arms, just in time to keep it from tearing out my throat. My hands locked around its neck, but it was _strong _as it thrashed about. A heavy foam was dripping from its maw, and I suddenly remembered Nedhel, long ago, explaining the strange water sickness that had infected the town's dogs. _Do not let it bite you. _The dark warning echoed in my head. I released my grip with one hand and punched it in the side of the head with all my might, but it scarcely seemed to notice. _Do something. Now. _I sucked in a deep breath, focusing my energy, muscles quivering as my arms strained to hold it off. And then I blasted it with a frost spell. It howled, but quickly recovered. Again. It snapped its jaws at me, more ferocious than ever, but there was less force behind it. The last of my strength draining away, I hit it one more time. It drooped, and I scrambled away. I gasped in the foul air as my thundering heart slowed, and I was promptly sick. Sagging back on my heels, I wiped my mouth and stood on shaking legs.

I whipped out my sword at the sight of the figure in the far corner of the room, only to realize that he was dead. Yet another naked corpse. I shuddered, and turned to the other side of the room. A slaughtered rat, and…a shrine of some sort? I stepped closer. A ring of candles surrounded a plate, and on it rested…

A severed head. I stared at it. It stared back at me. It may have been minutes that ticked past as we froze there, my gaze locked on its empty sockets. Clumps of black hair still stuck to what remained of its scalp. Rotted lips peeled back to reveal a sinister grin. I couldn't tell what race or gender it had been—all I knew was that it had been dead a long, long time. Cold sweat broke out on my upper lip, and then I was sick again.

As I straightened up again, I noticed that a chair had been positioned in front of the shrine—as though someone often sat there, watching it. A chill ran though me at the thought, but then I noticed the unmarked leather book on the table next to it. On a sudden impulse, I picked it up and flipped it open.

I instantly recognized the handwriting, large and scrawling as it ran across the page, as though it belonged to a child. And I mentally kicked myself for having ever thought it to belong to Lucien Lachance. The ink appeared to be running terribly, though, and I noticed it had a reddish tint to it. Written in blood? Another cold chill threatened to ice over my bones, and then I actually read what was written there.

_It's all right, mother. It's almost over. I'm close. So very close. How long have we struggled? How long have we waited? Too long, I know. But it's almost over. I promise._

What in Oblivion?

_killhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimk illhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhim…_

It filled nearly an entire page.

_I hate it! All this lying, all this pretending! Sithis and the Five Tenets be damned! How long do I have to live by their rules? How long before I get my chance? I saw Lucien Lachance yesterday. He was in the Sanctuary talking with Ocheeva. He was right there! So close I could have severed his spine in less than a heartbeat!_ _Oh Mother, never before have I had to exercise such self-control. What's sickeningly ironic is that it was the Dark Brotherhood's discipline that allowed me to restrain myself. I've been a part of their "family" for so long it's a part of me, whether I like it or not. And in all that time I've fooled them all. They see me as a fellow member of the Brotherhood, a trusted family member. Some day soon I will learn the truth about the Night Mother, and when I do, I will use that trust to get close to her. Close enough so that I may rend the head from her body, just as Lucien Lachance did to you so long ago!_

And there it was. I had found our traitor. So Lucien had assassinated his mother, and he had infiltrated the Brotherhood to exact his revenge. How long in the making had these plans been? Longer than four years, that was for certain. And long enough for him to ascend to the Black Hand. How old, though, had he been when his mother had been killed? From his narrative, it sounded as though he'd been a child, but any man who kept his mother's _head_ sitting around could not be entirely stable. I shuddered. Had that been what had driven him to madness?

But as I flipped further through the journal, the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach only intensified. His account told of his ascension through the Brotherhood ranks, speckled with bursts of incoherent gibberish. Worst of all, he described, in great detail, betraying and murdering several Family members, along with countless civilians. I thought of the girl lying across the cabinet in the other room as the darkness tightened its grip. This was not madness, I thought slowly. This was pure evil.

_I've been switching them! Switching the dead drops! It was so easy! I tracked Lachance from his lair at Fort Farragut to the first dead drop location. After Lachance placed the orders, when I was sure he was gone, I switched them! It was so easy. Now Lachance's fool Silencer is working for us, mother!_

I couldn't bear to read anymore. I snapped the book shut as white hot rage flared up, blinding me. I turned and ran, past the corpses, past the blood, out into the sunlight. The traitor obviously wasn't here, but there had to be _something_ in the journal that was incriminating, if only the fact that he'd been an assassin for the Cheydinhal Sanctuary. But then I remembered that the Hand already knew that—it was the reason my family had been forced into martyrdom. How had he managed to slip out of his own web so easily? My feet pounded faster along the pale paving stones as I fled through the town. Hooded and in my shrouded armor, I was entirely conspicuous, and I didn't even care. All I needed was to get to Applewatch as quickly as possible. Lucien had supposedly recommended the fool for a Silencer position. Surely he had to know who that was? But something wasn't adding up, and the more I became aware of it, the more an uncomfortable feeling began to prick at my spine.

I reached the stables sweaty and breathless, and I immediately made a beeline for Shadowmere. Luckily, the stablehand had heeded my advice, and had simply left her in the corral, her girth still tightened and her bit still in. "Sorry, girl," I muttered as I swung astride. "I'll make it up to you, I promise." The stablehand waved, but I simply pointed her towards the road. "Come on, girl," I murmured into her velvet ears. "Run like you've never run before." And as soon as my heels touched her sides, she was off. I crouched in the saddle, the wind battering my face as we flew east along the Gold Road. We were riding for Applewatch, and it was as though the Daedra themselves were chasing us.

That blessed mare ran all through the night, slowing to a trot at times during the following day, but always pressing on. She truly was no ordinary horse, I realized as she took the slopes of the Silver Road at a canter. It was dusk when we reached Applewatch, and I leaned down from the saddle to shove open the gate. I had completed a contract here back in the autumn—strange, that Lucien would choose here, of all places, to hide. But as I swung down from the saddle, I frowned. Something was not right here. There was a column of smoke pouring from the chimney, a blatant signal that someone was here. Lucien wouldn't be so stupid as to give away his hiding place like this. That could only mean…

I sprinted forward, slamming through the front door only to stop short, taking in the sight that met me. Blood was splattered across every visible surface. Strung from the ceiling by its feet dangled a corpse, mutilated beyond recognition. And four hooded, black-robed figures turned to stare curiously at me. Oh Sithis. Oh Sithis, no…

"Silencer! You've arrived at last!" The figure nearest to the door greeted me warmly, her thin face breaking out into a smile. "_Say something. _I could only stare at her, wide-eyed. "Come now, there's no need for fear! The crisis that has threatened our Brotherhood has ended!" Clearly, she thought I was fearful for my own life. Oh, you stupid woman, if you only knew…

"I am Arquen, Speaker for the Black Hand!" she continued, oblivious. "And as you can see, the betrayer has been dealt with! No longer shall you serve as his puppet!" She smiled in a way she must have thought comforting. "It would seem Lachance wanted revenge against the Brotherhood for some reason, and used you to do his dirty work. But the Black Hand knows of your innocence!" The hint of venom that crept into her voice did not escape me, but instead, I allowed my gaze to creep over to the other three figures. The Dunmer must be Banus Alor, but I hardly gave him a second's glance. Instead, I stared at the two on the other side of the room. So it came down to them. Here I was, in the same room as the traitor. Ten strong. Eight clear. Only two to go. Which one? Belisarius Arius and Mathieu Bellamont. Both male, average height, and Colovian, fitting with Enilroth's description. But one of these men had manipulated me, orchestrated the deaths of my family, framed and tortured and murdered my Brother. AnnTeinavvaOcheevaTelaendrilGogronM'raaj-Dar_Vicente_. My glare had to be melting their bones. How could they not feel the heat? But Arquen was speaking again.

"Now, we can finally begin anew," she continued. No. No we can't. Not while _he _stands there, smirking inwardly, mocking us, wearing Black Hand robes. "And to start, I bestow upon you the title of Speaker!" My gaze abruptly shifted back to her. She stared at me, obviously expecting some sort of reaction. "Here, take these. They belonged to Lachance, but they will have to make do for now. For you must be properly attired when we travel to meet the Night Mother! Lachance had you kill the Listener, did you know that? We five are all that remain of the Black Hand, and we must now travel to her crypt to seek her guidance. We shall invoke an ancient ritual and wake the Night Mother from her slumber, so that she may name one of us Listener!"

Her voice seemed to be coming from very far away. I cautiously looked down at the bundle she had placed in my arms. Lucien's Black Hand robes. Unconsciously, I held them a little tighter. There was a familiar, comforting smell wafting from them: tobacco, damp earth, wood smoke, and… Oh gods. Lavender and nightshade. I felt the blood begin to rush to my head. The two main ingredients of my signature poison, ingredients I always carried with me, whose scent always clung to me…

"Excuse me." My voice rasped like gravel as I cut Arquen's prattle off. "I'm going to need a moment." And I turned and fled straight back out the door.

My feet seemed to echo on the still-frozen ground as I ran across the pine needle-littered yard. And Shadowmere, who could always be counted on to kick or bite, stood and allowed me to wrap my arms around her neck as I sobbed.


	30. Chapter 27:Of Blood and Something Darker

Chapter 27: Of Blood and Something Darker

The tears came hot and fast, but were over almost as soon as they had begun. I stood motionless, face buried in Shadowmere's mane as I struggled to shatter the grief settling over me. Lucien. Oh gods. I failed you. If only we hadn't talked for so long. If only you hadn't tried to heal me. If only…

I was hyperventilating. I took a step back, inhaling deeply through my nose and out through my mouth, forcing my breathing to slow. The shutters were closed, but they were probably watching me right now. It would be very, very foolish to let them see me like this. So I stood as calmly as I could, trying to rein in my racing thoughts. Arquen's words were finally beginning to sink in. I was a Speaker. I was officially sitting on the Black Hand. It should have been an honor, but it felt more like a mockery.

And furthermore, we were going to meet the Night Mother. We would awaken her, speak with her directly. A shudder ran through me. I had lost faith in the Brotherhood supremacy, but if we were actually to actually speak with the Night Mother…

Well, all could be set to right! She would be awakened from her slumber, and see the traitor standing before her… And she would call him out. She would immediately identify him, and then we would all draw our weapons and we would fall on him, like…

Like they'd done to Lucien. Another sob choked free, but I drew on a façade of steel. Time to play along. Let them think what they needed to. And then when they saw their folly, they'd pay…

But how? Surely they had to pay _somehow. Look at what they'd done._ I glanced down at the bundle I was still clutching. Lucien's robes, a symbol of his status. Now belonging to me. I unfolded them, allowing the hem to drop and graze the frosty ground. He'd been roughly about my height, but a good deal thicker. I slowly drew them on, feeling extremely irreverent. Alone, they would have been too big, but they fit smoothly over my armor. The familiar scent enveloped me, and I felt the tears prick at my eyes again. But I fought them back as I drew the hood up, allowing it to settling around my head and cast my face in shadow. Strangely, they felt more protective than my armor did, as though my fallen Brother himself had settled around my shoulders. Shadowmere let out an eager nicker, and immediately began whuffing at my hands. I was reminding her of Lucien, I realized miserably. But I simply scratched her forehead for luck, and turned to face the farmhouse.

Four heads turned to face me expectantly as I entered. "Are you all right, Speaker?" Arquen stared at me intently. I lifted my chin.

"Yes." I spoke calmly, simply. I would keep my composure. Two remain, in this room. _Who is he? _"Now what's this about awakening the Night Mother?" The Altmer's face brightened.

"The ritual can only take place when darkness shrouds the Empire. Between the hours of midnight and three, we shall travel to her resting place and begin the awakening."

"That's hours from now." She must have sensed the panic in my tone, as her expression grew puzzled.

"Well, yes," she said slowly. "You must understand our need for darkness and secrecy?" I could only nod numbly, hoping my face did not betray my horror. Four hours. I was trapped here for the next four hours: with the traitor—and with Lucien's body.

Or what was left of it, anyhow. I tentatively took a step closer. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to take in the sight of it. He had been scalped, his long, black hair sawed away, leaving only a thick, bloody pool on the floor beneath him. I could not bring myself to look upon his ruined face, however, my gaze quickly jerking upward. Massive chunks of flesh were missing all across his body, ranging from fist-sized to the entire right side of his torso, where broken ribs were fully exposed and organs were spilling out. But when I saw that his genitalia had been completely cut away, more bile threatened to rise in my throat.

"Beautiful, is it not?" The soft voice that spoke from my right caused me to jump. The Dunmer stood merely inches away. "The four of us attacking him in unison was as graceful and beautiful as a ballet! The flashing of steel, the spraying of blood!" I tried to keep the horror out of my face as I stared at him.

"A poet," I finally said. He shrugged, shifting to study the body more carefully.

"I suppose," he said. "Do you not ever pause for a moment to appreciate a kill's a beauty? Each, in a sense, is a work of art."

"I appreciate that I'm good at it." Then, sneaking a glance at the two remaining suspects, "_Very _good." But even I could hear the emptiness of the threat. _Stupid, stupid little girl, do you really think you pose any danger at all to this monster? _But the Dunmer was speaking again.

"A realist."

"Touché." Oddly enough, in another life, under different circumstances, this bizarre homicidal artist and I could have perhaps been friends. _Idiotic boy, do you have any idea what you've gotten yourself into? Any sense at all of what you've done? _There was a low chuckle as the other two robed figures approached.

"You really should take some time to admire the corpse," one of them admonished. "It really is a thing of beauty. The punctures and slashes are almost…" He paused. "Poetic." He let out a thin laugh. Making fun of me? That hardly could imply guilt, though…

My gaze shifted to the other one, whose thick, dark brow was furrowed into a scowl. "Enough," he scolded. "This isn't a game." Because it's something more? "But I will admit, killing Lachance was pure ecstasy. I have not had blood on my hands in far too long. Most of my time is now spent on administrative duties," he grumbled. He appeared to be about Lucien's age, whereas the other was substantially younger. But there was no way of knowing when they'd joined the Brotherhood…

I tried to quiet my mind. There was no way, really, that I would be able to deduce which one of them it was. Not here, not now. But regardless, the traitor was standing an arm's length away from me—_an arm's length!_—and I could do nothing. I could do _nothing_. Carefully, I backed away, leaving them to discuss their work. When I felt the wall brush up behind me, I stopped and leaned stiffly against it, arms folded over my chest. And I waited.

Many times in prison, I had thought I would go mad with the _waiting_. In that dank stone box, the walls seemed to lose in, only made worse by the tiny square of light offered by the window, taunting me with freedom. And yet, all the months of that were far preferable to this wait. Memories—ghosts, really—swirled up unbidden from the dark reaches of my memory where they had been safely stored: silver blond hair soaked in blood, Teinaava's head nearly cleaved from his shoulders by Gogron's axe, the solid connection of the blade burying in Vicente's chest…

I jumped, startled, as my teeth met through the inner flesh of my lip, blood filling my mouth. I was sweating profusely. How much longer could I stand this _waiting_? He was _right there. _I could have wept with frustration, with anger, with a blazing sense of justice. Many of them had fallen asleep. Arquen had slumped over on the bench she sat on, her head propped against the wall. Alor had actually sprawled out on the bed, despite the bloodstain left there from that contract. The older candidate had stretched out by the fire, and the other sat in a chair, simply waiting, as I did. _How long would I have to endure this?_

_Not much longer. _The words of comfort spoke from deep within my consciousness. I suddenly remembered Vicente's words of parting. _Carry me in your heart, and I will always be there…_ I imagined my mentor standing there beside me, waiting with me. He would be crossing his arms, a single eyebrow arching in disapproval. _Really, Sister? _he would say. _You are one of the deadliest individuals alive. _I _trained you myself. You've hunted for eight months, and you expect me to believe that you can not restrain yourself for only a few hours more? I know you have more discipline than this. I am disappointed. _My thoughts grew just the tiniest bit clearer.

"You are like an unholy vision. So beautiful." Those words did not come from inside my head, nor were they reassuring in the slightest. My head snapped in the direction of the only other wakeful inhabitant of the room.

"What?" He jumped, blinking rapidly.

"I'm sorry, Speaker?" He smiled thinly.

"Did you just say something?" I demanded. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck were prickling.

"I'm afraid not, Speaker. You must be mistaken." Again, with that stupid smile. An uncomfortable feeling was arising in the pit of my stomach, but I forced it down. He was simply…unsettling, that was all. Nothing more, nothing less—and not an unusual trait for an assassin. I couldn't rely on that to tell me whether he was the traitor, but it was difficult, with only the two of us awake, and Lucien's body swaying there grimly… _when in the snow I like to lie and fold my arms and wait to die… and_ _when that's done I'll sing and dance to celebrate a dead LaChance…_

Luckily, Arquen chose that moment to awaken. "Speakers!" she called out. Those still asleep stirred, sitting up and rubbing their eyes. _How could they sleep so peacefully?_ "The time has come. Let us join hands, and invoke the ritual that will transport us to the Night Mother." I made a beeline across the room, darting into the forming circle just in time to take my place between Arquen and Alor. I would not risk touching the traitor.

"And so it begins," Arquen continued, "the Black Hand's journey into a darkness few can imagine. Let us be off! The Night Mother awaits!" She spoke an incantation, and then blackness surrounded me, pressing down, suffocating, pulling. It filled my ears and my mouth, the iron grips of Arquen and Alor on either side of me my only tangible connection. Even the floor seemed to have dissipated entirely.

Without warning, it was over, just as suddenly as it had begun. And I stood in shock as I observed my surroundings. We were back in the Bravil square, the Lucky Old Lady looming up before us. _What in Oblivion…_

Arquen chuckled, noticing my expression. "Ah, yes. The locals call this statue the 'lucky old lady.' Little do they know how lucky they really are." She smirked. "This stone effigy masks the entrance into the Dark Brotherhood's most revered unholy site—the crypt of the Night Mother herself!" She seemed to mistake my barely-bridled anger for confusion. "I know this is all very overwhelming, dear child. Just follow along, and you'll be fine. Now, let's go see what the future holds, shall we?" With another condescending smile, she swept to the foot of the statue and cleared her throat.

"Unholy Matron, we of the Black Hand beseech you!" she called. "Reveal yourself now, most magnificent Night Mother, so that we may seek your guidance!" And the statue actually began to crumble, twisting, morphing, changing its very shape. Was that _screaming_ I heard? And then it was over, with only ringing in my ears remaining, and a trapdoor had appeared in the base of the statue. One by one, they descended down into the depths. I was the last, the trapdoor clanging shut ominously behind me. My heart was thundering so loudly I was sure they could hear it, my chest constricting and my stomach churning over on itself. This was it. It was time. Yes. Now.

Torches flared to life, and the Black Hand frowned as they glanced around the little chamber. Large stone chests were placed sporadically around the edges, and at the head of the room, a large iron coffin was displayed, surrounded by several smaller ones. "There's nothing here." Alor's voice sounded scornful, but then, in the corner, shadows began to stir.

They drifted together, taking form, until a ghostly woman stood before us. The Night Mother. My throat tightened. "_What is the meaning of this?_" she hissed. "Who has disturbed my ancient slumber?" If she had a face, I could only imagine the terrible expression that would be on it. Even so, I felt myself shrinking backwards.

Arquen seemed taken aback as well, but she quickly recovered. "Dearest Night Mother," she addressed her, although the tremor in her voice was clearly evident. "Most Unholy Maiden, please, we beg your mercy in this, our time of need! The Black Hand seeks your guidance!"

"Ah yes." There was a note of amusement, a shift in tone so sudden it was all the more terrifying. "I have been expecting you. The Listener now kneels by Sithis, as does his successor. There is a traitor amongst you." Her tone suddenly grew accusatory. These abrupt transitions were jarring, yet somehow comforting. _She knows. She _knows_._

Arquen's brow furrowed, puzzled, and I was surprised by the burst of anger that jolted through me, a strong desire to slap the idiotic expression right off her face. "The traitor is dead, dear Mother," she said, her voice the same as one uses with children or with the very slow. _She's not senile, you moronic woman. You, on the other hand… _"We have come now to ask your blessing. Anoint one of us your Listener, so that we can restore—"

"Foolish little girl!" The Night Mother's voice came forth as a roar. And I felt myself begin to smile as they trembled, but who was the traitor? _So close. So close now. Why won't he reveal himself?_ "Lucien Lachance served Sithis til his dying breath. The Black Hand remains tainted by betrayal. Restoration is impossible."

"But how, Mother?" Arquen began to ask, but there—there it was! The rasp of a blade being unsheathed. I froze, but my head began to turn of its own accord, my hand reaching across my body, the brush of Ayleid alloy against my glove...

"ENOUGH OF THIS!" Banus Alor's eyes shot wide open, his mouth forming an O and then going slack as his neck was transformed into a crimson geyser, with a blade sprouting forth from the middle. "You will all suffer for the pain you have caused me! I will destroy your Night Mother and the Dark Brotherhood will fall!" Belisarius Arius howled with pain as a dagger was buried in his gut. _Find the traitor._ Ten strong, nine clear, one is a lie, here he is. _Bellamont!_

"The traitor lives! It is Mathieu Bellamont!" Arquen's shrieks were that of no mortal. "Do not let him harm the Night Mother! Kill him! KILL HIM!" Arius had fallen, and Bellamont knocked Arquen to the ground as he charged the Night Mother. Her laughter began to fill the chamber as his blade passed harmlessly through her. _NOW!_

Dogfight. The only word for it. No ballet. No poetry. Just Arquen, just me. Attacking him. Blades rending through cloth, missing the mark at the last moment. Flesh wounds. Pain. Blood. Falling. Rising. Rage, rallying _blinding _rage. Shrieks. Unintelligible ranting. Minutes. Hours? Laughter. Terrible, terrible laughter.

Arquen lunging, Bellamont striking. Her face filled with blood. Arquen staggering, falling. Disarmed! A foot in the gut, pain, pain, falling. The fool turning. Hoping to finish Arquen? Sword arm raised—last mistake. Rage.

You are _mine _now. _Pay. _Caught off balance, teetering, crashing down. Pinned. _Now! _For Vicente. For Antoinetta. For Teinaava. For Ocheeva, for Gogron. For Telaendril, for M'raaj-Dar. For Lucien. For Enilroth, manipulated and threatened, for sacrifices nearly made for naught. For nameless corpses, entombed in your nightmarish lair. Stabbing deeper, deeper. Face tattered as Lucien's.

"He's dead." A wavering voice. "Sister, enough, he's dead! Sister!" And a gentle touch on the sleeve of my robe.

"NO!" No voice of my own. Shoving her away, letting her fall. "I'm going to flay him and wear his skin as a coat." Peeling back skin, exposing muscle, bone.

"Oh, _Sithis. Please Sister!" _And a pause.

"Do NOT call me Sister!" Back to work, the crack of bone, a small shriek. Good. How far do ribs have to bend before they break? I'm going to carve out his heart.

"Enough now." And my dagger stops mid strike, freezing seemingly of its own accord. "The price is paid, and you've had your fun."

I sagged back on my heels, entirely soaked in blood, Bellamont's mutilated corpse beneath me. The Blade of Woe was lead in my hand. Done. All done. Eight months of torture, of mental agony—it had all lead up to this. And now it was over. _Find the traitor. _And the unspoken command, _make him pay. _Done and done. Too exhausted to comprehend it. Too exhausted to weep.

"Child." The Night Mother's voice was surprisingly gentle. "Approach. I would speak with you." I stood slowly, and stepped toward the spectral figure. "So," she said, "at last we meet. I have been following your strange journey through the Dark Brotherhood, young one." I kept my gaze fastened at the ground, although she had no eyes to meet. "Your killing of the old man Baenlin…the execution of Adamus Phillida, the way you stalked and murdered each member of the Draconis family…" She sighed. "Even your Purification of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary." I stiffened at that, but she continued, unfazed. "Then you, a mere underling, managed to single-handedly eliminate half of my Black Hand! And of course," she gestured with a ghostly hand, "this mess here requires no comment."

"Ah, you choose to play the stoic, hmm?" she commented when I made no reply. _May it serve you well…as does your silence. _The words floated up from the corners of my memory, and I unconsciously gripped the Blade of Woe, which I had failed to sheath, a little tighter. I felt the corners of my mouth lifting, but whether it was a smile or a sob—or both—I had no idea. "You remain silent even when faced with my terrible countenance? Your silent obedience is to be commended. If only my other children had offered such reverence." She sighed. "You see, I have known of Mathieu Bellamont's intentions since he was just a boy. I knew of his thirst for vengeance."

"_Excuse me?_" I finally spoke. "You…you knew? That all of this…all these terrible things would happen? _And you did nothing?_" My voice had risen, gaining strength until it was as terrible as hers. She began to laugh.

"Yes, child. I see that this angers you. True, I could have informed my Listener. But I refused! Refused to reward such incompetence!" She snorted. "Ungolim was weak. Indeed, I allowed Mathieu Bellamont to proceed on his destructive course. Just as I allowed you to intercept him."

"_How could you let that happen?_" Indeed, I could have buried my blade in her chest—if I hadn't known it would have no effect.

"Don't you see? Our Dread Father foresaw your defeat of the traitor, here in this very crypt! You have been chosen! You are to be my new Listener! You possess strength, and cunning, and a heart as black as midnight! You, my dear, were marked by Sithis the moment you emerged from your mother's womb." I heard Arquen faintly gasp.

"No." Slowly, I began to shake my head, defiantly crossing my arms over my chest. "Absolutely not. Me? Listener? I think the fumes down here are addling your mind." _Whatever happened to your silence? _Swallowed by rage, Brother.

"It is your destiny, child. There is no escaping it."

"I don't _want _to be Listener," I forced out through gritted teeth. "I don't want to serve you. Sithis be damned! They were my family, and if you could have stopped this then they died for nothing! And my 'blind obedience' you commend me for is what led _me _to kill them. If that's what I've been reduced to, I want no part of this." But the Night Mother shook her head.

"The Dark Brotherhood was corrupted, child. Do you know what happens when a wound festers? The corruption spreads. When a limb is amputated, good flesh is often cut away as well in the process, so that the rest of the body may survive. Mathieu Bellamont was such a wound, and there was poison spread all throughout the Dark Brotherhood. The Cheydinhal Sanctuary was the flesh surrounding the wound. Their sacrifices were necessary. Rest assured, their innocence is known."

"That is the most idiotic analogy I have ever heard," I stated flatly.

"Perhaps so," she chuckled, "but accurate nonetheless. And whether you like it or not, the Dark Brotherhood needs you."

"Needs what?" I demanded. "I stand here, openly defying you, and you would still make me your leader?"

"Yes, yes!" She laughed gleefully. "At last, you begin to understand! Blindly following policies, ignoring what is right in front of your face, as that sheep Ungolim did, will trap us in the past. Times are changing. Trouble is coming. And if the Dark Brotherhood can not evolve, we will be destroyed. To lead, to truly lead, requires insight! Instinct! Your righteous anger has put you under the impression that you have the right to do whatever you like. Has this not always been so?" And I once again fell silent, remembering.

"Yes, now you begin to see. Good." She nodded. "Now is the time to meditate on all that has transpired, for there is much work to be done. If you are ready, I will send you to the one place you can truly call home—the Cheydinhal Sanctuary." I failed at masking my horror, eliciting a laugh from her. "Dear child, do not look so shocked! The place where you forged yourself, where you grew from child to assassin—how could it be anything but a place of refuge for you? The site of the Dark Brotherhood's greatest tragedy of these times will birth a new breed of assassin—a new generation for a new era, more powerful than Tamriel has ever seen. And don't worry—the bodies have been taken care of." She laughed, and I bristled. "When you arrive, consult with Arquen. She will serve as you humble servant and guide."

"Most honorable Night Mother, I don't understand. I—"

"Silence, girl." The Night Mother interrupted Arquen with a wave of her hand. "I know, you had expected to become Listener yourself. Never fear, your talents will be put to use." I glanced in her direction just in time to see the barely-concealed dark look that crossed her damaged face.

"Now begins your true journey, child," The Night Mother once again addressed me. "We will soon become very intimate, you and I." She chuckled. "Before I sent you away, however, I would like to present you with a rather special reward. I see you still possess the Blade of Woe, the weapon given to you by Lucien Lachance when you first met." I still held the dagger, Mathieu Bellamont's blood drying on it. "Allow me now to unlock its true power!" I recoiled slightly as her ghostly fingers reached out, but they merely brushed along the blade. "Yes, you will now find the Blade of Woe a bit more... potent than it was." She smiled, and I felt the difference—it now felt alive with energy, as a spell did before it was released. "Now go. Leave this crypt and serve our Dread Father til your dying breath!"

I beseeched her one last time. "I don't want to do this." I took a deep breath and played my final card. "I _won't _do this."

"Do it for your family, child." Again, the Night Mother's voice was surprisingly gentle. "They died for this, after all. Think what Vicente Valtieri would say to see you ruling." And I had lost. I briefly closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, I was standing in the main room of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary.

It was lit only by the dim flickering light of Arquen's torch, but grew steadier as she began to light up the ones mounted on the center pillars. I tentatively circled the chamber. Antoinetta had died here, as had Teinaava and Gogron, but just as the Night Mother had said, there were no bodies. There were no bloodstains either, no signs at all that any sort of struggle had occurred. My stomach churned as I wondered what had become of them. "Listener?"

Arquen's voice startled me out of my musings. It was the first time I had been addressed by my new title. As I wandered back over to her, all I could think of was how hard it must have been for to refer to me as such. She had been entirely convinced that she would be named Listener; in fact, I had thought so as well. She had, after all, taken the leadership role in organizing the remnants of the Black Hand. And although it was petty, I felt the tiniest hint of satisfaction. _You killed Lucien, you bitch._

The wound across her face were Bellamont had slashed her had stopped bleeding, but it still looked to be in desperate need of a healer's attention, and her face was liberally streaked in dried blood. There was venom in her eyes as she spoke, but her voice was cool, collected. "Honored Listener, I offer myself as your humble servant and guide. Please, allow me to mentor you in your new role." She really was suited for the role of Speaker, I thought as I studied her. She hid her contempt well. I nodded.

"Right." I raised an imaginary cup. "All hail Sithis. My life for the Brotherhood." I turned and headed for the well entrance.

"Listener!" The shock on her voice was almost enough to elicit a laugh from me. Almost. "Where are you going? We have matter of great importance to discuss!" I paused.

"You can take the quarters down that hall, first chamber on your left. Training room is there, and living quarters that way. I'll be in touch."

"Listener!" But I had already scaled the ladder, and the trapdoor was clanking shut behind me.

I didn't really have a clear destination in mind, but there was no way I could stay in the Sanctuary. Surprisingly, my feet led me to Fort Farragut, and awaiting me in the courtyard was Shadowmere. I ran forward to hug her, but she threw up her head and skittered back just as she'd done in our first days together, unnerved by the scent of traitor's blood. She finally allowed me to approach her, and although she remained on edge, she allowed me to remove her saddle and bridle. I carried my saddlebags out beyond the enclosure of the fort's walls, searching for entrance the ladder in Lucien's chamber had to lead to. I finally found it embedded in a tree trunk, and I descended into the home of my fallen Brother.

It was all one room, but he had neatly organized it: his bedroom, a reading area, and alchemy workstation. Dropping my bags to the floor, I crossed to the bed and collapsed on it, my exhausted body crying out in relief. It was just supposed to be a simple contract. Get in, kill him quickly, and get out. Continue on the bleak path I had set myself on. It was unhappy and guilt-ridden, that was for certain. But it had grown safe. Comfortable, almost. But then!

The target—the Listener. Every contract I had completed over the past several months—a lie. The Black Hand nearly destroyed. Lucien, surprisingly, not the villain. Enilroth alive. The most horrific encounter of my life. Lucien tortured, dead. Meeting the Night Mother. The traitor revealed. The traitor dead by my hand. Being named Listener. I didn't even know where to begin to comprehend it.

I shifted, and felt something crackling beneath me. Frowning, I reached for my side, into a pocket of the robe, and discovered a crumpled sheet of parchment, covered in bloodstains but still readable. I smoothed it out and began to read.

_Silencer—_

_If you are reading this, then I am most certainly dead. As I sit here writing this, I tell myself that any moment, you will come through this door with good news, and I will casually slip this into the fire when you are not watching. But I fear this is not to be the case. I can feel the Black Hand drawing nearer, and I fear my time is short. My only hope is that you will be named Speaker, and will thus receive these, my final words. I have decided to go ahead and relay the information I withheld from you in Bravil, as if your search turns futile, it may be able to save both you and the Brotherhood._

_I am fairly certain that Mathieu Bellamont is the traitor. I was hesitant to name him, out of fear of making hasty judgments based on personal dislike. But the more I think on it, the more I am sure of this._

_Mathieu came to the Cheydinhal Sanctuary as young man, but already twisted and bitter. There were several incidents involving family members over the years, and I eventually recommended him for a Silencer position simply to have him removed from the Sanctuary, out of concern for the safety of the family. Additionally, I know that he and Ungolim had become quite close. This should give you some idea of the man's cunning—to purposefully incriminate himself in order to be absolved of guilt. For when the traitor was linked to the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, he had been apart from it for so long that we did not even consider him._

_He is not to be trusted. Be watchful, be wary, be on your guard. He may attempt to draw you in. Play along, but do not allow yourself to relax around him, not even for a second. If all of this truly is Mathieu's doing, it worries me that he has kept you alive for this long after pulling you so far into his web. This means he has a far grimmer fate planned for you._

_And finally. Thirty paces west of this fort, you will find the graveyard. I have buried them all myself. Telaendril is there as well, as I was able to recover her body from the priests of Arkay who had retrieved it. If you wish to pay respects, feel free to do so. If not, do not trouble yourself._

_You are truly one of the strongest Sisters I have ever had the honor of knowing, and that strength will see you through whatever is to come. I now only pray that I am to soon be reunited with my dear Antoinetta, and that we will not see you for a long, long while. I wish you all the best, Lily. May Sithis guard you._

_All my love, _

_Lucien_

I let the parchment slide from my fingers as I began to sob. The traitor was dead. The nightmare was over. But at what cost? _At what cost?_ For what was awaiting on the other side seemed full of far greater terrors. The loss, the anger, the lines I had crossed—all had taken their toll. I had emerged from the darkness into a far different world than the one I had left, and regardless of my title, regardless of Lucien's words, I was entirely unprepared to face it.


	31. Chapter 28: A Brotherhood Reborn

Chapter 28: A Brotherhood Reborn

_Arquen_

Arquen sighed as she trudged up the never ending hill. Winter had ended at last, but the seasons seemed to have skipped spring, moving straight into summer, and it was_ hot_. The sun beat down on her black robes as trickles of sweat ran down her back and her forehead. The trees lining the road offered sparse shade at best. How much longer _was _it? She should have changed into civilian clothes, she thought miserably as Fort Farragut finally came into sight.

Inside, it was dark and mercifully cool, although heavily rigged with traps and crawling with skeletal guardians. However, she hadn't earned her place on the Black Hand through dumb luck, she thought grimly as she battled her way through. But when a dart trap caught her unaware, it was all she could do to stifle a shriek as several of them embedded themselves in her skin. Her robes muffled most of the damage, but the tips still glistened with blood as she pulled them out.

She forced herself to slow her breathing as she pulled the last of the darts from her neck. Luckily it had just nicked the skin. Most of these traps had probably been set up by Lachance, she reasoned as she continued onward, but the girl was doing a damn good job of maintaining them. A small burst of anger flared up, and she had to once again regain her composure as candlelight came into view at the end of the hallway. "Listener?" There was no response. She peered through the portcullis. There was no one there. She frowned, but then she caught sight of something black lying across the bed. "Listener!" she call out, more insistently this time. Again, no reply. She sighed in frustration.

The lever to right cranked open the portcullis, and she entered the chamber tentatively. "Listener, it's Arquen," she announced firmly, and at last, the black figure spoke.

"Ah, yes. You've found me." The dull voice echoed dimly, and the Listener sat up, rolling over to face her. She had sprawled on top of the blankets fully dressed, her boots leaving dusty tracks on the fabric. Her hood had fallen away, revealing her tangled hair, and her eyes were bloodshot. _Her eyes really are orange,_ Arquen thought with a horrified fascination. There had been rumors that the girl had been cured of her vampirism, leaving her a horrible hybrid, neither woman nor monster. Those rumors, she now realized darkly, had been heavily instigated by Mathieu. This seemed to be the only truth to them, as otherwise the girl seemed perfectly normal. Well, if "normal" was a relative term…

"You've been drinking," she said, perhaps a bit more snidely than she intended. The Listener rolled her eyes.

"Have I?" she bit back. "So good of you to notice." _She really doesn't like me. Not that I really blame her, I suppose…_ Arquen took a deep breath and spoke calmly.

"Listener, you have a duty to the Black Hand. To the entire Brotherhood. And I don't see how you can fulfill it in _this _state." She allowed a note of scorn to creep back into her tone. _The Night Mother should have named me Listener. How could she have thought that this…this _mess _could possibly lead better than me?_

"I do my duty!" the Listener snapped. "I report to the hag, I report to you. It's all I'm _allowed _to do, remember? It's one day a week, two at most. The other six are mine to do as I please."

"But you never showed up to the Sanctuary this week," Arquen reminded her patiently, choosing to ignore the insult to the Night Mother.

"You were out." She shrugged. "I was going to leave a note, but then I remembered that there are new Murderers, and that you're an _impeccable _judge of character." She pushed off the bed, crossing over to a bookshelf.

"Listener, that is _not fair_," Arquen began, her voice rising. "If I may remind you, Mathieu Bellamont manipulated _you _as well." The Listener whirled on her, but then she let out a gasp, her face going grey as her right hand reached across her body to clutch her shoulder. A folded piece of parchment fell from her left hand. "Listener!" Despite herself, concern flashed across her mind. "Are you all right?"

"I'm _fine_," the Listener snapped, but her face was twisting uncomfortably as she sagged into a nearby chair. She let go of her shoulder to gesture toward the parchment on the floor. "Take that. It has the list of clients. Just go." Instead, Arquen carefully approached her, sinking down to the floor beside her.

"What happened to your shoulder?" she asked quietly. The Listener looked as though she was about to shout at her again, but instead, she responded almost civilly.

"Daedric arrowhead," she muttered. "The Night Mother may not have liked him, but he didn't become Listener for nothing. He could _shoot_." She grimaced. "Lucien had to pull it out the other side."

"Ungolim shot you?" She frowned. "Did you see a healer?" The Listener shrugged, but the motion obviously pained her, as she unsuccessfully tried to hide her wince.

"Lucien stopped the bleeding and numbed it. And I took a healing potion later."

"So you're telling me that you haven't bothered to seek treatment for an injury that took place over a month ago." Arquen tried to keep her voice calm. Only an idiot would trust Lucien Lachance to heal her. "And besides, healing potions are meant to be quick fixes. A complicated injury requires much more sophisticated restoration magic. And when a joint is injured, it's extremely difficult to heal it correctly."

"It's fine." The Listener's tone was dismissive. "It's functional, and it hardly even hurts anymore."

"You haven't been in a fight since," Arquen pointed out. "You haven't really had to use it."

"I'm Listener, remember?" Her tone was sour. "I'm not supposed to fight anymore."

"I'm sure you'll find something to get into. You're honestly going to hide out down here for the rest of your life?"

"Maybe I want to." Her voice was losing its edge, and suddenly she sounded merely weary rather than confrontational.

"Maybe you want to for now." Arquen found herself running out of steam. "You might not always feel that way. Why purposefully cripple yourself?" For a moment, the Listener's stony façade crumbled, and Arquen saw a flash of emotion. And not for the first time, she felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. _They really did do things differently in Cheydinhal._ And seeing an opening, she struck. "Let me look at it. Please, Listener." For a moment, there was no response. And then, just as she was about to plead again, the Listener slowly nodded.

Arquen nearly gasped as she saw the recently formed scarring. Daedric weapons were a healer's worst nightmare. And if the surface was this bad, she could only imagine the damage done to the inner tissue. "You really should have had someone look at this after it happened," she groaned out loud. "Scar tissue is so much harder to work with." The Listener merely rolled her eyes, her prickly attitude returning, so instead, Arquen reached out with her magic, seeing into the wound.

The worst part about Daedric weapons was that they seemed to _stick_ to flesh, causing further damage. It would be a challenge, but she could fix the chipped bone. However, the muscles and ligaments had been practically shredded, and then awkwardly (and incorrectly) fused back together. That was extremely delicate, specialized work, and far beyond her expertise. She briefly summarized the situation for the Listener, who huffed impatiently. "Just get it over with."

It was slow, tedious work, but the Listener, oddly enough, didn't complain once. Pausing to recollect her concentration, Arquen glanced up to see the Listener watching curiously. "How did you learn this?" she finally asked.

Arquen was quiet for a moment, contemplating, then decided to go ahead and trust the other woman with the information. "I worked in a brothel, for many years, before the Brotherhood found me," she finally responded. "There was always someone who needed patching up." She held her breath, waiting for the scornful reply, but when she finally dared to look back up at the Listener, her expression was merely curious.

"Really?" she asked. "What was that like?" Arquen found herself blinking in surprise. It was the oddest reaction she had ever received. Pity, contempt, or laughter—it was always one of the three. But the Listener only asked, _What was it like?_ No hint of underlying emotion, except maybe mild surprise. She thought for a few moments before answering.

"It…had its moments, as odd as that sounds." She glanced up again before continuing. "Some customers were simply lonely. Often they tried to be kind, and you couldn't hate them. Not really. And I did meet many interesting people." She paused. "And then there were those with more sinister purposes. That was how I learned to heal. Out of necessity and experience, really." The Listener still hadn't said anything, so she continued speaking, feeling suddenly nervous. "In that line of work, you have to possess both a strong personality and a sense of humor. I, unfortunately, lacked the latter."

"And that was how you ended up in the Brotherhood." It wasn't a question."You killed one of the more unpleasant customers."

"One?" She couldn't help but let out a short laugh. "A few more than one. But very perceptive, Listener." The woman's head was cocked, an odd expression perched on her face.

"Bellamont referred to you as a whore in his final contract. I had thought he simply meant it as an insult."

"What?" Her flow of magic abruptly cut off as, startled, she allowed her attention to flash to the Listener.

"The final orders he left for me. I was to kill an Altmer whore named Arquen in Chorrol. Only by that time, I had already found out he was switching the orders. Lucien intercepted me right after I killed the Listener."

"I was next." Arquen's stomach tightened. In her years as an assassin, death had been a constant threat, and then again when members of the Black Hand had started turning up dead. But all that was very different from being specifically marked for death. A cold chill ran down her spine. Of course the Listener would have succeeded. She had killed her predecessor, a deadly individual in his own right, as evidenced by the extent of the wound Arquen had been healing. And then, there was the fact that Lucien Lachance had inadvertently saved her life. She shuddered, and quickly changed subjects. "Yes, Mathieu rarely let me forget my past. It doesn't surprise me." She could hear the bitterness in her own tone. But she had sealed the last flake of bone into place, so she cut off the magicka and abruptly stood. "Done."

The Listener slowly rotated the joint, testing it. "You still need to see a healer," Arquen admonished her sternly. "There is still extensive damage I don't know how to repair." The Listener nodded.

"Thank you." She stood, and turned to her alchemy station. "I will see you in a week. Don't forget the list of clients." Her tone had gone stiff and formal again. Arquen wasn't sure if it was directed at her, or of the talk of Mathieu Bellamont had stirred up some buried emotion. She sighed to herself.

"Listener, why don't you come back to the Sanctuary with me?" she offered. Instantly, she knew that had been a mistake when her spine visibly stiffened through her robes.

"No, thank you. I think I'll stay here." Was there _nothing _that could stir this girl into action? What happened to the enraged demon that had passionately torn Mathieu to pieces? Again, Arquen was forced to wonder at the strange dynamic of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary. _My family, _she'd referred to them as when speaking with the Night Mother. Not Family, in the professional sense. Just family. Lachance had done the same, but the concept seemed silly to Arquen.

"We need you to take part in rebuilding, Listener. The Night Mother chose you for a reason. Under your leadership, the Black Hand will reign eternal! But only if—" The Listener's harsh laughter mercifully cut her off, ending the painful speech she had launched into.

"What Black Hand? You and I? What power do two _stupid _individuals such as ourselves have? What do we have to reign over? The Dark Brotherhood is dead. _We_ killed it." The hot, dark rage was nothing new, but for a moment, there was a small twist to her expression, and Arquen had never seen such an expression of anguish. She was still bitter, of course, over not being named Listener, but it scared her to see the other woman directing the anger inward. And so when she began speaking again, she surprised herself in that she was almost sincere.

"We survived, which is more than any of the others can say," she pointed out. "And the Hand can rise again! You're Listener. Appoint more Speakers. Choose a Silencer," she urged. "The Dark Brotherhood is not dead. Our numbers are fewer than they've been in centuries, but there are three other Sanctuaries hiding out there, Sanctuaries that have managed to survive!" She took a deep breath, and humbled herself even further. "You spoke of the Cheydinhal assassins as though they were your family. Perhaps that is what all of us need." Unconventional. Unrealistic. Completely _stupid_. But the Night Mother had named her Listener.

"There are three new Murderers at the Cheydinhal Sanctuary as we speak. Two Brothers and a Sister. One of the Brothers has an _uncanny_ ability to blend with the shadows. I swear he was marked by Sithis himself. As for the other…well, he isn't much one for stealth, but he's the best shot I've ever seen. The Sister is young, but she's already received extensive magical training. She's already developed several of her own spells. She's absolutely brilliant." Arquen paused. "Come meet them. They, of course, do not know the whole story of our recent tragedy, but they know enough that you are something of a legend to them. They'd love to meet you." She let that sink in. "Please?"

The Listener regarded her with a tight-lipped, unreadable expression. Then, very slowly, she nodded. "Fine." Arquen let out silent breath of relief. "I will come and speak with them. But then I'm gone again. Understood?"

"Of course, Listener." Finally, some progress.

The trek back to the Sanctuary was distinctly uncomfortable. The Listener had drawn her hood back up, and she didn't say a word, much less even look in Arquen's direction. It was a relief to finally reach the abandoned house, and then to step through the Black Door to the dim light of the Sanctuary. Muffled clanging sounds of metal on wood were coming from the training room.

"Ah, N'ohbody must be practicing. Shall I introduce you?"

"Nobody?" The Listener's eyebrows arced, and Arquen stifled an urge to laugh.

"Our new Khajiit Brother, and his name is N'ohbody." She tried to pronounce it the way the Murderer himself did, allowing it to roll off her tongue. "Come, I'll make the introductions."

The Khajiit paused in his assault on a training dummy, turning when he heard the wooden door creak open. "Speaker, I…" He trailed off when he saw the second robed figure drift in beside her.

"Ah Murderer, hard at work, I see? Good." She gave him her most winning smile. "We have a very special guest gracing the halls of our Sanctuary today. Allow me to present to you our most esteemed leader herself, the Listener." His green-yellow eyes went wide.

"Most honorable Listener, I…it is an honor." He stumbled over his words, bowing instead.

"The honor is mine, Murderer." Arquen's gaze snapped to the side as the Listener spoke. Never before had she heard her speak in such a tone: powerful and authoritative and _polite_. Perhaps she was better suited to the role then Arquen had realized, she mused.

She quietly stepped back and wandered to the other side the room, listening in as the Listener chatted with the recruit, questioning him on his training and abilities. All seemed to be going well—until she was forced to listen in horror as the Murderer asked, "I…I heard what they did to Lucien Lachance…Is it true that Arquen feasted on his entrails?"

Leather and fur were not enough to muffle the sound as the Listener backhanded him across the face. "You are speaking of the Brotherhood's greatest tragedy of this era," she hissed, her voice the low, dangerous growl Arquen remembered only too well. "Perhaps right now this merely a job to you; a way to make gold or to vent your darker impulses. But as you eat and sleep and train and laugh and cry and_ live_ with your fellow assassins, they will become family to you. This is _not_ a job. This is a life. _Your_ life. It's also my life, and Speaker Arquen's life. Our family died, and you will _not_ dishonor their memory with empty gossip. _Is this understood?_"

The petrified swordsman could only nod frantically. "Good. And now I have a task for you. You are to go to whoever told you this rumor, and relay the message on to him or her." He quickly bobbed his head.

"Y—yes, honorable Listener." And the Listener swept from the room.

"Was that necessary?" Arquen quietly approached the Listener.

"Of course it was." She had expected her to be seething, but instead, her tone was calm. "This is a business we're running, not a freak show. Rumors like _that _will make a mockery of us. I'm putting a stop to it immediately." And Arquen found herself nodding in agreement.

The Listener bit her lip, a pained expression crossing her face as they entered the living quarters, but Arquen pretended not to notice. Instead, she called out to the slight figure hunched over a pot of something in the kitchen. "Marisa," she called out. "I would like to present our most honorable Listener." The girl's dark eyes went wide as she turned.

"Oh! Listener," she breathed, her face filled with awe. "It's such an honor to meet you. I've heard so much about you."

"The honor is all mine." The Listener carefully regarded the girl. "And your name is?"

"Marisa Dupre, milady." The girl nervously stared up at the Listener, then down at her feet. "I…I just…if I'm not being too forward, I just wanted to say…I'm really excited. To be here, I mean. I really hope I won't mess this up."

"Why?" The question appeared to startle the girl.

"Milady?"

"Why don't you think you'll be successful? From what I hear, you're already an accomplished mage."

"Well, I just…" The girl's voice trailed off in a whisper, and she guilty glanced away.

"I asked you a question, Murderer." The girl looked to Arquen instead, who slowly nodded in encouragement. In truth, she was curious to see the Listener's reaction to the girl's story, given the earlier conversation she'd had with the woman. The girl took a deep breath, and met the Listener's gaze square on.

"I was a whore," she said bluntly. The Listener didn't even blink. Unsteadily, the girl continued. "A few months back, I had a child. A little girl. She was beautiful." A flicker of a smile crossed the Murderer's face, then disappeared. "But then Areldil—he took her! Took her right from my arms. I told him she wouldn't be any trouble. The other girls would've helped me look after her. But he took her anyway. I don't know what he did with her. But I don't think it was good." Her voice had gone low, and from the way her eyes were fastened on the ground, Arquen suspected she was trying not to cry.

"So I killed him." When she looked up, her expression was defiant. "It was a fair trade. My girl was my life. He took mine, so I took his."

"Fair enough, I think." If she hadn't known better, Arquen would have sworn she saw a ghost of a smile on the Listener's face. "And this Areldil—who was he, exactly?"

"He handled the customers. Made arrangements, dealt with the money…you know."

"I see." The Listener nodded. "How did you kill him?" The girl seemed puzzle by the question.

"A dagger in the gut. Finished him off with a frost spell."

"And were you angry when you killed him?"

"Yes." The girl's scornful tone, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, nearly made Arquen burst out laughing again.

"Did you enjoy killing him?"

"Yes."

"And have you ever killed anyone else?"

"Just the man Speaker Arquen told me to when she asked me to join. But I poisoned him and ran off. I only knew it worked because Speaker Arquen told me." She looked away guiltily, but the Listener was nodding.

"So you're afraid you won't make a good assassin because you've only really killed when you've been _really_ angry. When you absolutely, positively _knew _your target deserved it."

"Yes." The girl's voice was now a meek whisper. The Listener paused.

"How old are you?"

"Fifteen, milady."

"Young." The Listener's voice bore only mild surprise. "But I've seen younger. Take one of my sisters, for instance. Have you not heard of the slaying of Adamus Phillida?" At the girl's earnest nod, she continued. "That was my sister, Antoinetta Marie. She was twelve when she came to us." That was news to Arquen. She'd known, of course, that the girl was young, but not _that _young. _Sithis' sake, Lachance. What in Oblivion could possibly possess you to recruit a child?_ She glanced back to the Murderer who was now staring at the Listener with an expression of mixed surprise and confusion.

"Let me tell you something, Marisa." The Listener addressed the girl by name. "Every single one of our clients is angry, too. Only not everyone has enough mettle to pick up a dagger, as you did, and do what needs to be done. That's where we come in." She paused. "Each contract is a great service to someone. I think of it as an act of love. Remember that." The girl nodded earnestly.

"And I'm very sorry about your daughter. I, too, know what it's like to lose family."

"Thank you, milady." The girl's voice was a shaky whisper.

"Listener, not milady. I'm not a noble." And the Listener actually smiled. "I'll be following your progress closely. Good luck, Marisa." And she turned and walked back down the hall, leaving a gaping teenager staring at her back.

Arquen caught up with her as she reached the doors. "That was some interesting advice you gave her," she commented. The Listener turned to face her as they entered the main hall.

"I, too, was once young and in possession of a conscience. Vicente Valtieri told me as much to help me sleep at night." She sighed. "Arquen, she's a _sweet girl_." The regretful expression she wore spoke to the real meaning behind her words.

"I know." Arquen sighed. "But she has the willingness to kill, the _instinct._ How many people are born with that?"

"We are going to thoroughly and utterly corrupt her." The Listener's voice was filled with dread.

"Where else does she have to go?" Arquen dropped her voice to a whisper, as N'ohbody excited the training room and headed toward the living quarters, glancing fearfully in their direction as he did so. "She grew up on the Waterfront. I don't know how long she was a whore, but long enough for her to have a child. She's _fifteen_." Arquen reminded, pausing to allow that to sink in. "And now on top of it, she's a murderer. Here, at least, we'll feed her, clothe her, educate her. Protect her until she's able to do so herself. She's a bright girl, but at her station in life, it will all go to waste."

"You make a convincing argument." The Listener sighed. "And if I'm not mistaken, you've taken a personal interest in the matter." To Arquen's utter shock, her voice was gentle.

"It would seem _you_ have as well," she shot back, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Growing overly invested in the lives of one's fellow assassins was ridiculous, one of Lachance's absurd notions. The girl simply possessed a collection of valuable assets, and it would be a shame to waste them.

"She reminds me of my sister." The Listener's voice was once again sharp, and Arquen breathed a sigh of relief. "But you'll have to forgive me—it's a bit of a shock to see such tender caring from the woman who _chewed apart_ my Brother." The words flowed forth smooth as silk and deadly. Luckily, an awkward confrontation was avoided by the arrival of the final Murderer.

"Murderer! You've arrived at an opportune time. Allow me to introduce to you our most esteemed and honorable Listener!" The archer approached, bowing deeply.

"Listener, it is—" He straightened, and immediately stopped short, his jaw actually sagging open as he stared at the Listener.

"Merciful Talos," he breathed. His eyes were filled with wonder. "It's you! He was right! That old fetcher was actually—"

There was a solid thunk, followed by a smack as the Listener's fist connected with the side of his head. He instantly dropped to the floor. Arquen shrieked.

* * *

**A/N: I know that N'ohbody's name isn't exactly lore-friendly...but, well, it's an easter egg of sorts. Anyone care to guess it? Hopefully this chapter was a nice change of pace. I thought we needed to get out of Lily's head for a bit; it's getting pretty scary in there. Any guesses as to who the third Murderer is?**


	32. Chapter 29: The Other Years

**A/N: No one wanted to venture a guess? I'm disappointed! I thought it was fairly easy. Actually really easy. Also, I am so, so sorry it took so long to get this out. It did NOT want to get written, but it's done now and here it is. This is our longest chapter to date, but it's broken up in several places, so it should read fairly quickly. Enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter 29: The Other Years

_Caius Bolar_

_Rain's Hand 433_

The tolling of the prison tower bells awoke him. For a moment, he kept his eyes closed, wishing he could just lay there in his bed instead of facing the rain pattering at the windows. But then he heard the sounds of the men around him rising, feet shuffling against the floor as they wrestled into their armor, and he was forced to throw back the blankets as well.

He quickly ate an apple and a hunk of bread in the mess hall before heading over to the bastion to report for duty. To his surprise, there was no one at the desk. But then he heard the shouting, and realized one of the doors leading to the prison was slightly ajar. Wandering over in that direction, he was about to push it open fully, but then a white-armored figure burst through it, nearly knocking him over—not an easy feat in his heavy armor. Captain Adamus Phillida himself stomped through the room and exited into the courtyard, slamming the door behind him.

Caius blinked. Curious as to what could elicit such a display of temper from the watch captain, he ventured down the tunnel. But as he passed the small chamber that served as an interrogation room, he found himself nearly knocked to the ground for the second time in the past five minutes. "_Godsdamn _it, Brutus," he snapped. He was never of a good temper in the morning. "I—" He stopped short as he caught sight of the other recruit's face. "What _happened _to you?" he demanded.

Brutus had joined the Legion the same time he had. They had completed orientation and training together, but when they had received their placements a few weeks ago, Caius had been assigned to the City Watch and stationed in the Prison District, whereas Brutus had become a Forester and headed off to patrol County Bravil. But the other man was back in the City, sporting two black eyes and a crooked, blood-encrusted nose.

Brutus unconsciously dabbed at his nose, as though unaware that the bleeding had stopped. "That Bosmer bitch," he growled. "If they execute her, I hope Phillida lets me swing the axe myself."

"What's this, now?" Caius frowned, as his old friend sighed.

"Last night I was reporting in at Castle Bravil, and the news comes that there's been a murder." Caius frowned, but Brutus was still speaking. "Then, word starts pouring in from all over the city, and it becomes _six _murders." Caius could feel his eyes popping wide open. Bravil was known for its high crime rate, courtesy of the struggling economy and the popularity of skooma among its residents, but six murders in a single evening was unheard of. "And then, right in the middle of an unprecedented situation, it becomes two more. The Count's steward and the castle mage, right there in the castle courtyard itself. The mage was still alive when they found her, and she managed to identify the attacker. She didn't survive, but the city guard found the assailant and brought her in. I was the lucky one picked to book her, and the bitch did _this_." He gestured toward his face.

"First of all, _eight murders_?" Caius demanded. "In the space of a few hours?"

"Looks that way, yes." Brutus nodded.

"By the Nine." Caius sent a silent prayer, asking for comfort for the people of Bravil in this frightening time. "How did she manage to get that shot at your face?"

"I had two other guards with me!" Brutus' voice was rising. "They were _holding _her. I don't know how she did it, but she _kicked me in the face!_" His face had gone purple, and Caius might have laughed, if the situation hadn't been quite so dire. The other man sighed. "Captain Phillida thinks she was an assassin. Dark Brotherhood. And I have to say, I agree with him. The _way _the victims were killed was flawless. Single stab wound to the back of the skull. No average citizen knows that." Caius had to agree.

"It certainly sounds that way, then," he agreed. "Any connection between the victims?"

"Yes, actually. They were apparently all involved in some legal fiasco. Further supports Captain Phillida's theory." He shrugged. "Anyhow, my work here is done. Back to Bravil. Good seeing you again, Caius." There was a metallic clang as he clapped Caius on the shoulder. "And do me one favor. If you get the chance, beat that little bitch's brains out." And he clanked back up the stairs, the whole way muttering to himself about blood and Bosmer, leaving Caius to stifle his chuckles.

The jailor shift was a long one, and his boredom only increased as the day went on. As he daydreamed, he frequently found his attention wandering to the mysterious prisoner downstairs. Was she really an assassin? The thought was intriguing. If so, why was she still alive? They said that assassins carried suicide rings with them, and were under strict orders to use them if captured. But again, they also said the Dark Brotherhood recruited its members by visiting people in their sleep when they committed murder, and he knew that wasn't true, as the new Waterfront taxes were just that, and he had yet to see Hieronymus Lex skulking around in the shadows with a hood and dagger. Indeed, the only thing that broke the monotony of his day was a few sporadic appearances of ragged-looking folk, come to visit acquaintances in the debtor's prison. The cells were practically overflowing with them already, and the situation only seemed to be growing worse.

His last task of the day, before the night jailor would come to relieve him, was to distribute the evening meal. His thoughts had once again returned to the prisoner, and he found himself approaching that block of cells last. He fed the cranky Dunmer first, ignoring the muttered jibe as he retreated back into the darkness of his cell, something about "Imperial rat in the Imperial prison." Instead, he turned his attention to the cell across from the Dunmer's.

At first, he thought the cell was empty. He frowned, stepping closer to take a better look. He had half expected her to be shackled to the wall or something, frothing at the mouth and raving mad. But then he saw her. She was little more than a bundle of rags on the floor, sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. Her head was bowed, and turned toward the far wall of the cell. "Prisoner." He addressed her formally, and her head slowly turned to face him. He felt his breath catch in his throat. Holy breath of Talos. She was _young_. And judging from her blank, wide-eyed expression, absolutely terrified.

Perhaps at that point, he should have simply set down the tray and walked away, but instead, he found himself speaking once more. "Your dinner." She unfurled herself slowly, standing and hobbling over to the gate. He passed the cup of soup and the bread to her himself, holding them as close to the bars as possible. Prisoners were not allowed to reach through the bars; doing so counted as an attempt to escape and would result in additional sentencing.

"Thank you." Her voice was a low, hoarse half-whisper. She took a long, greedy drink of soup, and then began devouring the bread. He wondered how long it had been since she'd had a meal. Form what Brutus had said, her capture and subsequent imprisonment thus far had not been particularly pleasant, even by prison standards. She had retreated back into her cell, and had sat down again.

"How old are you, girl?" Her head snapped up, and for a moment, she simply stared at him.

"Seventeen," she finally muttered, dropping her gaze back down into her lap. He felt a sudden flash of pity. She was barely more than a child. But then he remembered what she'd done.

"Rather young for such a death count, wouldn't you say?" She looked back up at him, more slowly this time.

"You wouldn't understand."

"Maybe not, but I do understand that murder is a very serious crime under Imperial law, even punishable by death in some cases." Her face suddenly grew hard.

"I don't _care_." Her voice broke as the last word wrenched free, and she suddenly buried her face in her arms again. By the slight shuddering of her shoulders, he could tell she was crying. He uncomfortably shifted his weight to his other foot, then back again. Why—_how_—had he gotten himself into this situation? He should have just walked away, but at this point, he was too deeply engrossed. The entire situation was more of a mystery to him now than when Brutus had first told him about it. He had to _know_, to understand how this seemingly sweet little girl had committed eight murders only hours before.

"Why did you do it?" The question slipped out before he could stop himself. For a moment, she paused, attempting to wipe at her eyes, but her face was still tear-stained when she looked back up at him.

"According to Tamrielic law, in a criminal case when there is no clear verdict, it falls to the count or countess to make a judgment call. And if that verdict is not in favor of the accused, there has to be a…" She shrugged. "A waiting period of sorts, I guess. It's a last chance for the accused to find any evidence in his favor before the sentencing proceeds. That's how it's supposed to work, at least." She hesitated. "But there's a…loophole."

"What sort of loophole?" he asked, now curious. Where was she going with this?

"The accusers have to be able to _maintain _their case." A sudden smirk crossed her face. "They can't do that if they're dead."

"You took eight lives in order to avoid some jail time." He could hear his own tone falling flat. A sudden shiver of revulsion ran through him at the thought that he had actually felt _sympathy _for this monster.

"No!" Her self-satisfied expression was quickly replaced with one of horror. "Not me, my brother!" She glared fiercely at him. "It was a stupid case based entirely on false accusations. His only real crime was not being born Imperial." Bitterness edged her voice.

Caius frowned. The situation she was describing was absolutely ludicrous. She was a murderer, he reminded himself, a murderer who was probably half-crazed with paranoia. He was Legion, and he knew better than to take anything a criminal said at face value. But still, if there was any truth to what she said, there was some major corruption going on in the County Bravil government. He frowned at that thought, but she seemed to confuse his expression for something else.

"I probably shouldn't have told you that, should I?" Her voice was tiny. When he met her gaze, the fear was back. Slowly, he shook his head.

"No," he said. "I'm not an interrogator." He half-smiled at his little joke, but she didn't appear to get it. "The law is the law. Whatever you have set in motion can not be undone." A brief expression of relief flitted across her face, and he had a sudden thought that no matter what she was trying to accomplish, she had been acting solely on wild speculation. Perhaps she was mad, after all.

He sighed, stepping away from the bars. He had spent far too long down here already. "No matter how your situation plays out, I do wish you well." And surprisingly, he meant it, although perhaps he was just glad that his original impression seemed to be at least somewhat correct—that she was just a kid who had gotten mixed up in something way over her head. One thing was clear though: she was no assassin.

In the morning, he was assigned to the offices—a job even more tedious and boring than jailor. He was sitting at the small desk in the corner, cursing his luck, when in walked a woman and a teenage boy, and he quickly realized he was speaking to the family of the girl down in the cells.

Striding over to Captain Phillida's desk, he rifled through papers until he found the thick stack of parchment on the girl. Her name was Elbereth, he noted as he flipped through the pages of the file. With a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, he realized that the information backed up what she had told him yesterday. A couple of kids roughhousing got a little carried away, and one of them was to be sentenced to rot in prison over it? He swallowed hard, wondering how the Count could have allowed—no, _decreed_ this. This was not Imperial justice. This was something else entirely—something sick. _She was entirely right to do what she did._

The dark whisper, drifting across his consciousness as a barely tangible thought, stunned him. He was _Legion_. Sworn to uphold the laws of Tamriel. To promote justice. To protect and serve. Not to advocate _murder_. A cold sweat dampened his shirt beneath his cuirass, the cold metal suddenly feeling oppressive.

He swallowed hard as he explained Phillida's notes to the woman. The Watch Captain's narrative had a ranting quality to it, but its message, once deciphered, was clear enough. Enough septims would free the girl to live under house arrest; otherwise she was facing either execution or a lifetime of imprisonment. He wasn't able to look at the woman as he told her that. And she shouted and wept and cursed him, but he allowed her to rant. He figured she was entitled to that much, as she was essentially losing a child.

Instead, he turned his attention to the boy who'd started this whole mess. He sat there on the bench, his quiet apprehension contrasting with his mother's outright rage. And he spoke to him—trying to be encouraging, trying to be inspiring—but the boy sat frozen, his voice a low mumble, a mass of pale red hair hiding his face. But he finally did look up, as they exited the office, and the guilt in his eyes was a fist wrapped around Caius' stomach.

* * *

"How did you know?"

"What?" She looked up, startled, as he snapped the question at her. Her pupils were large in the dim lighting, nearly swallowing up dark green irises she shared with her mother and brother.

"How did you know how to kill them?" Caius had found himself unable to sleep, tossing back and forth into his bed as his agitation increased, until he'd finally given up, rising and dressing instead. And he'd ended up in the dungeons, demanding answers to the questions that kept eating away at the inside of his head.

She frowned warily, and he let out an impatient sigh. "Just tell me. As I've already said, I have no influence over this case." She swallowed hard, and spoke.

"From my illusion book."

"Excuse me?" He could feel his own eyebrows arcing upwards. She nodded slowly.

"In school they taught us illusion. How much do you know about it?" she asked suddenly. He frowned, displeased to have the questions turned on him.

"Not a lot," he admitted. He didn't know much about magic in general. His whole life he'd known he'd go into the Legion, and he'd been prepped for that from a young age. His father had hired him tutors, and when his lessons didn't involve combat, they were focused more on history and strategy.

She turned to face him, crossing her legs. "Illusion is the magic of the mind. It can be used to influence a person's moods, perceptions, and ways they interact with the world around them. Many mages believe that a practical knowledge of the mind is required to understand the magic behind it." She hesitated, and he once again sighed impatiently.

"Go on." He couldn't see what this had to do with the murders. Perhaps she had bewitched them into killing themselves? No, that wouldn't make sense, and besides, it didn't fit with the mage's account.

"There are…" She paused, gesturing. "Different..._sections_…of the mind that have different functions." She was wildly gesturing again, and he felt himself growing even more confused. "And the one right here. In the back of the head," she reached around her own head, touching the base of her skull, "is responsible for maintaining the heart…the lungs…all the basic functions a body needs to survive." She swallowed hard once, and then again. "Destroy it," her voice had gone faint, "and these functions shut down immediately. Instant death." She had gone quiet, staring down into her lap, her hands finally still.

Caius stared at her. "I'm sorry," he said, finally, slowly. "I am expected to believe that you learned how to _murder_…" He paused. "From a _Chapel textbook_?" To his utter shock, she began to giggle madly.

"I'm sorry," she finally panted when she managed to compose herself. "But when you put it like _that_…" And she was off again, her face turning bright red as her body convulsed, flopping back on the filthy stone floor. And to his horror, he was joining her. What _did _they teach in schools these days?

"You know this isn't funny," he said, sternly, once he had stifled his own chortles. "The penalty you may be facing for this…"

"I know," she cut him off, having sobered up. She lifted her gaze to meet his after a moment's pause. "I learned about the legal loophole from a Chapel book, too," she offered, and this time, he was the one being forced to stifle his laughter.

"Enough jokes," he said, more forcefully than he'd intended. "I need you to realize the gravity of this situation. I saw your mother today. Your brother, too." She suddenly sat straight up, expression serious.

"They were _here_?"

"Yes." He nodded solemnly. "Do you realize the state your mother is in? She's a complete wreck. In all likelihood, she won't see her daughter again." Elbereth's face was beginning to crumble. "And your brother. He's young. Ever stop to think what this might do to him?"

"It's better than prison!" she spat out, suddenly angry. "And I don't care. I'm glad I did what I did." Her glare was icy, and he found himself scowling at her.

"Are you?" he asked, and she stood, face contorting with fury.

"Go away," she snapped. "Go away go away GO AWAY!" Her voice had turned to a shriek, and he stood in stunned silence, that damned Dunmer snickering behind him.

"With pleasure," he said through clenched teeth. He spun on a metal-clad heel, then turned back to unleash one final retort. "But I hope you realize what a monster you are. I hope you hear the cries of the innocents you slaughtered when you attempt to sleep. May the Nine have mercy on your soul, because the Elder Council certainly won't." And he stormed out of the bastion, fleeing across the courtyard and to the safety of his bed. But all the way, the dark whisper followed him, the same one that had been plaguing him the entire afternoon. _I would have done the same…_

* * *

_Last Seed 433_

It was the bells that woke him, but not the normal bells, their rhythmic, musical pattern calling him from his sleep. No, these bells were frantic, clashing together with a cacophonous sound that could only be described as one of sheer panic. All around him, other guards were rising from their slumber, throwing on their armor and racing out the door. He followed suit, trying to ignore the knot forming in the pit of his stomach.

Everyone seemed to be lining up in the courtyard, and he fell in alongside the others. Something was wrong here. Something was very, very wrong; aside from the sudden shift in protocol (that never happened), one only needed to look at the faces of the officers to see it. And then Captain Phillida dashed down the Bastion stairs, his face looking grey (or was it a trick of light from the torches?). He stood firm, cleared his throat, and addressed the waiting guards.

"Men of the Legion," he said, his eyes flitting side to side, up and down, anywhere but meeting any of their gazes. "The Imperial Princes have been assassinated." Caius' heart practically stopped, and a cry out outrage went up from the crowd.

"How is this possible?!"

"The Nine preserve us!"

"How could the Blades allow this?!"

"Who would dare to strike against the Dragonborn?!"

"Silence!" the Legion Commander roared. The guards did as commanded, although a general mummer of dissent continued.

"It is believed that the Emperor is a target as well. His most trusted Blades have attempted to lead him to safety by the way of a secret escape route. However, it has been several hours. There should have been word by now, but there hasn't been. Captain Montrose and I are going to lead a unit into this escape route and investigate." The Breton to his right stood forward and began to call out names—all seasoned guardsmen renowned for their skill. Those who were called silently filed forward and disappeared into the Bastion. Then, to Caius' surprise, Montrose stopped in front of him.

"Bolar," he called out. "You're the best sharpshooter I've got. Come with us." For a moment, Caius stood still, certain that the captain had mixed up names. But when he noticed the glares from those surrounding him, he had no choice but to numbly step forward.

"Bastard," an unidentified voice snarled. "He's been with us for what? Four months? Five? What has _he _done to earn this?" But the captain was frantically gesturing.

"Come along, Bolar," he urged. "We haven't time to waste.

Inside, Captain Phillida led them through the maze of tunnels that the cell block comprised of. Caius, however, felt a twist inside his stomach when they stopped at a very familiar cell—the very one that had belonged to a certain Bosmer girl. The pale Dunmer across the way called sneering insults at them as they filed through, but no one paid any attention to him. Before Caius could wonder why they were all packed into a cell, he noticed the secret passage that was now present in one of the walls. "By the Nine." He spoke without thinking and cringed, expecting a reprimand, but to his surprise, those around him echoed the sentiment.

Captain Phillida glanced over his shoulder impatiently. "Yes, this tunnel leads through the Ayleid ruins and then out through the sewers. Let's _move_." They hurried through the tunnels without incident, until they caught sight of a flash of red up ahead. Their pace quickened, and they emerged to a gory scene.

"By the Nine." Phillida hurried over to the fallen armored figure. "Captain Renault!" The rest of the soldiers fanned out to examine the red-robed figures. The assassins? Phillida quickly stood, his face grim. "She was one of the best the Blades had ever seen. Does anyone have any idea about these clowns?" He gestured toward the rest of the bodies as a general murmur of disagreement went up, and his mouth settled into a grim line. "We need to keep moving. This is not good." They reassembled and quickly continued. But as they reached a door, the lock of which Captain Montrose began fumbling with, something caught the corner of Caius' eye.

"What's that?" he called out. Several of the guards moved to investigate along with them. Two dead rats lay on the cold stone, and behind them was a hole on the wall, looking as though something had bashed through it from behind judging from the debris littered in front of it. Phillida turned, observing.

"Captain Montrose," he called. "Take some men through there." And a cluster broke off and followed the captain through the opening, leaving Caius to follow the rest through the main tunnel.

There were several more clusters of corpses in red robes along the way, each occurrence accompanied by a liberal spattering of blood. The faces of the men around him grew grimmer, and Caius was sure his own matched. His thoughts were interrupted when he tripped over something in the dark—something that clanged loudly as his boots struck it. His horrified realization that it was a body—a body of a Blade—was accompanied by an angry shout.

"Who goes there?" The voice came from some tunnel or chamber beyond, and Phillida immediately sprung into action.

"The Imperial Legion. Show yourself!" There was a pause

"Baurus, of the Emperor's Blades. In here." There was a rush over in the direction of the voice, but then the mass collectively stopped short.

"Oh, Talos preserve us." Never had Caius heard such an anguished voice as that which leaked from the Legion Commander's lips. The Emperor, Uriel Septim VI himself, lay in a pool of blood, eyes closed, face gone ashy. "Is he…?"

"Dead." The Blade grimly confirmed Phillida's question. "Has been for a few hours now."

"What happened?" The Legion Commander's tone carried an accusatory note, and the Blade stiffened indignantly.

"We were ambushed. We'd meant to pass through that gate back there," he indicated in the direction over his shoulder, "but it was blocked. We tried to get through here, but then they were behind us. Glenroy and I went back to engage them, and while we were occupied…" He paused, swallowing hard, and Caius could only think of the stark feeling of failure the man must be experiencing. "The assassin came through a hidden panel there." He pointed to a narrow opening in the corner of the chamber, and Caius noticed a familiar red-robed figure lying a few meters away.

"At least good old Uriel put up a fight," Phillida muttered. He knelt by the fallen Emperor, and Caius, too, studied the body of the man he'd sworn to serve. This was the first time he'd seen the Emperor—at least up close. The Emperor had addressed his class of recruits when they'd been inducted into the Legion, but Caius had been standing near the back, and it'd been an uncomfortably warm day. That had been the first time he'd worn his Legion armor, too, he reminisced. Then Phillida suddenly stiffened. "Where's the Amulet of Kings?" he asked slowly. Caius, too, jerked to attention. He knew, as well as any soldier in the Emperor's service, knew what the Amulet was—a symbol of Akatosh's divine power and of his favor, given originally to Saint Alessia.

"Ah, that." Was it Caius' imagination, or did Baurus look uncomfortable? "The girl took it."

"The girl?" Phillida's tone was clipped and short.

"Yeah." The Blade sighed. "The girl who was in the cell up there. The Emperor gave it to her, along with a mission."

"Elbereth?" Caius gasped. Every head in the room snapped to look at him, and he suddenly realized that showing a level of familiarity, no matter how slight, was making him look very, very bad at the moment. The expressions showed a range of emotions from anger to suspicion to confusion, but the Blade look merely curious.

"I _knew _she was using an alias," he said thoughtfully. Very slowly, Phillida turned back to the Blade, his face a deep scarlet.

"Blade," he said carefully, deliberately "that girl had been imprisoned for a number of murders. She was also being held on suspicion of Dark Brotherhood involvement. And you allowed her to tag along with the Emperor while he was being pursued by _assassins_. And then, after he was _killed_, you gave her _the Amulet of Kings_, and you _LET HER GO?!_" Phillida's voice had morphed into an enrage roar of disbelief, his face inches from the Blade's own.

Caius expected an expression of horror, but instead, the man looked skeptical. "The Emperor trusted her," he said simply. "The Dragonborn see more than lesser men." Phillida's fist suddenly jerked back, and for a second, Caius thought he would actually slam it into the Blade's face. But instead, he abruptly turned away.

"Captain Montrose," he said through clenched teeth. "Gather your best men. I want you to hunt her down and bring her back here. Dead or alive. And make sure—"

"No." Baurus cut him off. "Men of the Legion," he called, raising his voice. "You are to make no move against this girl, by order of the Emperor."

"She is a condemned criminal, facing execution!" Phillida's face turned a deeper shade of purple. But the Blade shook his head.

"The Emperor had tasked her with the safekeeping of the Amulet. In doing so, he has made her his agent, bringing her into his service—the equivalent of an Imperial pardon, according to Tamrielic law." He was right. Caius knew it. Many of the men surrounding him knew it, heads nodding in agreement. And Phillida knew it, judging from the abrupt tightening of his jaw. "Would you so dishonor his memory by disobeying his final command?" The Blade stared the Legion commander down. The silence stretched out between them, until Phillida broke it.

"Montrose," he snapped. "Get the priests and the healers down here. We've got to get him out of here." He paused. "And _nothing _is to be said in the official statement about that girl. _Is that understood?_" And the murmurs of agreement rose up around him. It was, after all, an embarrassment to all of them, that such a high-profile prisoner had managed to escape—and with the Emperor's blessing, no less. And Caius was left to wonder how someone who had committed such atrocities could possibly gain such favor.

* * *

_Sun's Dusk 433_

"By the Nine." Caius stared at the young woman on the ground in front of him, sprawled in the alley. Her throat had been slashed, but the blood had long since dried, crusting in her hair. He looked away, the wind stinging his eyes as he squinted up at the sun. The cold had finally arrived in the night, but other than that, it had been a morning like any other. He'd been standing at his post, bored out of his mind as he tried to shuffle his feet to keep warm, for the metal of his boots froze his toes no matter how many layers of wool socks he wore. But about mid-morning, the word had come that there'd been a murder, the body discovered a mere block away.

He'd been reassigned after the assassinations, as had many others. Nothing new had been discovered about the mysterious, red-robed cultists, and Caius suspected that more experienced men were being moved to the Prison District to help with the investigation.

His new posting was in Talos Plaza, and for the most part, he couldn't complain. After all, it was located at the gates to the city, and so he got to see all the comings and goings, some of which were rather fascinating. But it was also the wealthiest district aside from the Palace, so crime was minimal—although it meant for an easy job, it was also mind-shreddingly boring. However, he was forced to rethink that idea, as a dead girl lay before him—murdered only half a block from the Legion watchtower where the district's guards were housed. That was a sobering thought.

"There was a struggle." Gaier had knelt to examine the body. "The bruises, the torn clothing…" He gingerly probed at the wound on her neck with a sigh. "I'm going to go get the temple healers. Reinforcements will show up any minute." He paused. "Are you all right staying here with the body?"

His mouth felt like it was filled with a wad of cotton, but he forced the words out. "Of course."

Gaier nodded. "Good. I'll return shortly." And he was gone, disappearing out into the street with a whirl of his cloak.

It was the first time he'd ever been this close to a dead body, and the first time he'd been alone with one. The only other time he'd actually seen one in person had been the Emperor. Of course, that thought sent the familiar twist through his stomach. He'd been sleeping sound in his bed when the assassin's blade had ended Uriel VI's life. The shame was spread all throughout the Legion. He could only imagine what it must be like for the Blades, those sworn specifically to keep this from happening. He sighed. At least with the Emperor, the fatal wound hadn't been visible—if not for the blood beneath his head, he could have merely been asleep. Nothing like the grisly sight before him now.

But as he stared at the girl's open throat, he found himself becoming strangely intrigued. He'd grown up hunting boar and deer, and he'd received extensive weapons training once he'd entered the Legion, but he had never actually taken a life. His thoughts wandered to the girl's murderer, and he envisioned a shadowy figure drawing a blade across her throat, severing the flesh's binds, allowing the blood to flow free…

"You all right, Bolar?" Gaier had returned, along with several other guardsmen and some robed priests. The priests moved to the girl's side immediately, and began maneuvering her onto a stretcher. She would be taken to the temple undercroft, where they would examine her corpse, and perhaps uncover clues. Caius stepped away, letting them do their job.

"We have a possible identification, too," Gaier informed him in low tones as they stepped away back into the street. "Lydia Arcadia. Her father reported her missing last night." His attention shifted away from Caius. "Stand aside, citizen. Imperial business." He addressed a passerby who had been edging toward the alleyway. As Gaier addressed the crowd control issue, Caius' attention once again drifted. The dark whisper was back in his head, and it was asking, _What does it feel like to take a life?_

* * *

_Sun's Height 436_

"You had _one _job!" Caius' head snapped to the side as Audens Avidius' fist once again crunched into his face. He hardly felt it, though. He had gone numb long ago. The taste of blood was sharp and metallic in his mouth, and he couldn't even see out of his left eye anymore.

"He dithmithed me." His speech was garbled; he'd bitten his own tongue at one point, and his jaw ached with movement. "What wath I thuppothed to do? I wath under oderth to obey him." He glanced up in time to meet Captain Draconis' disapproving scowl.

"You were under orders to _protect_ him! Instead, you delivered him to the Dark Brotherhood on a silver platter!" Avidius' face had gone purple. "Do you realize the mockery you've made of him? Of the Legion?" He slapped a piece of parchment on the table in front of him. "Read this."

Caius did as requested. Though his vision was blurry, he was able to make out the gist of it. Apparently, Phillida's severed finger had been discovered in his desk drawer at the Imperial offices—with his Legion signet ring still on it. Insult to injury. Clever, really. He had to force himself to stifle a snort, and then realized what he was laughing at. He lowered the paper and met Avidius' gaze.

"I did my duty," he answered honestly. "I wath with him every day, from the moment he got up in the morning until he went to bed at night. I followed him all over thith town, even though he did not make that eathy for me." He paused, taking a deep breath. "And the night of hith death, he told me he wathn't feeling well, and that he wath going to bed early. He went into hith chamberth, shut the door, and that wath the latht time I thaw him. When I went to check on him later, he wathn't there. And then I thounded the alarm."

"You believed him?" Avidius crossed his arms over his chest, a single eyebrow arching upward. Caius took another deep breath. Now was the time to tread very, very carefully.

"Thir," he said slowly, "Captain Phillida never gave any of uth any reathon to dithtrutht him." Another blow. He was getting rather used to it at this point.

"Enough of this," Avidius snapped. "We've already determined that this so-called noblewoman he was courting was a Dark Brotherhood agent. Why he was stupid enough to play into their hands I'll never know." He planted his hands on the table and leaned down menacingly into Caius' face. "But your failure has made a mockery of the entire Empire. What to do with such disgrace?" He leaned on the edge of the table, stroking his chin for a few moments. Then he called to one of the guards. "Bring me some ink and parchment." The materials were quickly produced, and placed in front of Caius. "Here." He placed a quill in Caius' hand. Miraculously, his fingers were undamaged, allowing him to hold the quill.

"Now." Avidius circled behind him. "You will write exactly what I tell you to." Caius sighed as the motives became apparent. He was being forced to write a formal confession, admitting guilt to playing a role in the captain's death. _It wasn't my fault._ But he would do it. He could take the fall. It was his duty. He was Legion. He was born to serve, no matter what the cost. And if this was it…

"_This was my big break_," Avidius dictated. "_Finally I'm given something important to do, and what happens? I blow it!_" Caius frowned. The informal diction was nothing like the wording of a traditional confession statement, but he wrote it down anyway. "_All I had to do was keep Phillida alive! That's it. But no—I couldn't even accomplish that._" Unease was beginning to creep over Caius. There was something distinctly not right about this. "_Father was right—I'm an idiot and I haven't amounted to anything._" At that, Caius bristled, remembering his father's last words to him. _I'm proud of you, son…_ He continued writing, the quill beginning to carve deep gouges into the parchment.

"_I let everyone down, so this is it. Goodbye, cruel Empire! I'm ending it all._" Caius slammed the quill down so hard it snapped in half.

"There ith _no way _in _Oblivion_ that I'm going to thit here and allow you to make me write a damn thuithide note," he hissed through clenched teeth.

"Don't make this messy, Bolar," Avidius snapped. "You're going to die anyway. This way it's nice and clean, rather than a public execution for treason." He smiled unkindly, and Caius forced himself to slow his breathing as he wrote out the final lines. He needed to stay calm, keep the situation under control. There was still a way out of this. There had to be.

"Ith anyone actually going to believe that I killed mythelf in a thecret torture chamber?" he asked coolly. Avidius snorted.

"Don't be stupid," he snapped. "We're taking you back up to the barracks. You done there?" At Caius' nod, he snatched up the parchment. "All right then. Let's go." He nodded to the guards, who took his arms and pulled him up out of the chair. This was good. He just needed to get outside.

The night air was thick and opressive as they emerged. Even better. He tried to breathe deeply as they crossed the courtyard, realizing he was trembling. Could he really pull this off? They were almost to the door. _Not yet...not yet...n__ow!_

He sagged forward, dropping to his knees, and let his body go limp. He felt his arms torn from the guards grasps as he pulled them down. "Gods' blood!" he heard Avidius swear. "Did he…did he just _faint_?" Gods, he would never live this down. "I don't care!" Avidius snapped at the mumbled replies. "Get him inside." They were reaching for him again, and with all the power he could muster, he cast the spell.

The girl in the Imperial Prison those years ago had sparked his interest, and he had begun studying illusion magic on the side. The chameleon spell flowed over him like water, and as the guards shouted and grasped wildly, he tucked and rolled, flipping to his feet and sprinting out of the courtyard. The night was his friend, the humidity was his friend, both synchronizing beautifully with the spell. Almost to the gate. An arrow whizzed past his head. Almost to the water. Footsteps pounding closer behind him. And then he was leaping, and the water was closing in over his head like a blessed relief.

He surface in the reeds as arrows peppered the surface. Under the water, he'd caught sight of the grate imbedded in the city wall—a grate that was coming loose. There was an opening, but he had no way of knowing if he'd fit or not. Guards were splashing into the pool, and he dove down again. He had to try. He wedged himself into the opening, slithering through. For a moment, he thought he'd make it—and then he was trapped.

The fabric of his pants had caught on a protruding piece of metal. He twisted around, trying to tug it free, but to no avail. His lungs were burning, screaming, threatening to explode as panic set in. He was going to die. He was going to die right here, disgraced and branded as a traitor and an escaped prisoner. _Not like this_ he thought grimly, and he thrashed even harder. And then, as if by some miracle, the cloth tore free, and he was rushing upward toward the surface. He broke free in the Niben, laughing hysterically into the darkness.

He had survived. Against the odds, amid the scandal, he had escaped. His career, the one thing he had worked toward his entire life, was ruined though, he thought grimly. His father's legacy was destroyed. But his anger fueled him as he scrambled up the west bank. He was _alive_. He'd find a way. And someday, he'd have his revenge.

* * *

_Rain's Hand 437_

His hand tightened on his bow as he caught sight of a flash of movement. Someone was coming up the road. He carefully prepared an arrow, using his legs to grip the tree branch as he leaned forward, taking aim. The trees were growing thicker by the day, and were beginning to make it nearly impossible to get a clear shot. He sighed, waiting for them to draw nearer. How many were there? A larger party meant more loot, but also a tougher fight. So he wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed when a lone figure came into sight. He eyed it carefully. Tall, but too slight for a Nord or an Orc. Altmer? No matter. It was close enough now. He lined up the shot, but before he could release the string, the figure looked up directly at him, smiled, and then disappeared.

He cursed inwardly as he froze. A damn mage. Mages were always the worst. He quickly tried to decide what to do. He could stay right where he was and try to remain hidden, but the mage had looked right at him, even with his chameleon spell. With a sinking feeling, he realized a detect life spell was probably responsible. But before he could run for it, a woman's voice rang out.

"Caius, please lower the bow and come down here. I only want to talk." She knew his name. That couldn't be good. He once again considered fighting his way out of the situation, but he still couldn't see her. So he carefully stowed his bow and climbed down, walking to the center of the road and raising his hands in surrender.

"There's no need for that." She materialized right in front of him and he jumped out of his skin. She chuckled. "I apologize for startling you, but there's no way we can have a civil conversation when you have a weapon pointed at me, now, is there?" Shrewd grey eyes peered at him from either side of a fresh scar that ran from right forehead to left jaw.

"Who are you?" he demanded. The whole situation was too strange for his liking, and there was something ominous about this woman.

"I won't beat around the bush. My name is Arquen, and I come to you as a Speaker for the Black Hand." At that, his hand craned around and whipped out his dagger as he backed away fearfully. The Dark Brotherhood had found him.

"What do you want with me?" he snapped. This was about Phillida. He knew it. Or would the Legion have gone so far as to make a deal with the devil for his life? He would have run, but the thought had just occurred to him that there could be more of _them_—invisible, as the Speaker had been. Her eyes narrowed.

"Put that down, Caius," she said sharply. "We're having a civil conversation here, remember?" He lowered it, but still held it in an iron grip. "That's better." The Speaker smiled.

"Who sent you?" he snapped.

"The Night Mother. She's been paying close attention to your new career."

"The _Night Mother_?" he asked dubiously. He could feel his own eyebrows arcing.

"Our Unholy Matron," the Altmer replied coolly. "When our Lady speaks, death follows." She sighed as he continued to stare at her. "She's been watching you, Caius. You caught her eye as a fresh young recruit in the Legion, and she's been tracking your progress ever since. And when you began slaughtering unsuspecting travelers after your abrupt exit—well, let's just say she was most pleased."

"How do you know that?" He was starting to grow extremely nervous. The Speaker knew far too much.

"I told you, Caius." Her voice was even. "Our Lady watches. And the Dark Brotherhood has an extensive network of informants."

"What do you _want_?" He asked the question through gritted teeth. He just wanted this horrible, bizarre conversation to be over as quickly as possible.

"I want you to join us." She said it so simply, for a moment, he thought she was joking. Then he realized she wasn't, and the anger erupted.

"I am but one of many in a long line of Bolars who have served as guardians of Tamriel," he growled. "I'm _Legion_. I was sworn to serve, not—"

"Not pillage and plunder?" she asked innocently, and he would have loved to plunge his dagger straight into her heart. "Really, Caius, murder has become more than what you do. It's who you are." Her words pierced him to the core. "And really, is an assassin any different? If anything, I would say it's _better_." Her voice had dropped to a whisper. "Bandits don't discriminate when it comes to death."

He tried to make a retort, but could not think of a single one as he began to truly consider his life choices. And an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach grew as he thought of the dark whispers in the back of his mind that had led him down this path. Ambushing travelers had begun as a way to survive, to be a thorn in the side of those who'd betrayed him—until the night he'd killed that courier. And after that…

"I see I have your attention." The Speaker's voice broke through his thoughts. "And now, I charge you with a task. Travel south, to the village of Water's Edge. Kill the red-haired Nord, and your initiation into the Dark Brotherhood will be complete. I will then come to you, and we will speak further." And with a small smile, she turned and headed off in the direction he'd come from.

"What if I don't do it?" he called after her. She paused, turning slightly to smile back at him.

"I think you will." And then she continued on.

He stood watching her, until long after she had disappeared around the bend. And deep down, he felt himself being called south.

* * *

_Second Seed 437_

He awoke to the stone ceiling of the Sanctuary above him, a terrible pain in the side of his head, and voices shouting.

"He's Legion! What was I supposed to think? I thought he was a spy, that we'd been infiltrated!"

"Who cares if he was Legion? He's with _us _now. You think I blindly recruit anyone who walks in off the street?"

"I don't know, Arquen, you spent _years _kissing Bellamont's ass, so you'd probably—"

"Enough! Enough! And you're right, how could you _possibly _know who I recruit since you can't be bothered to visit your own Sanctuary!"

He chose that moment to clear his throat as he slowly sat. The argument immediately halted, and two pairs of eyes quickly turned to face him.

"Caius, are you all right?" Arquen quickly rushed to his side.

"I'm fine." His gaze was focused on the other woman. "I never thought I'd see you again. They said the Emperor sent you on some mission, but then you never turned up anywhere. They thought you were dead." She merely stared at him, and so he quickly continued speaking. "And I thought Phillida was just off his rocker, but you—you really are Dark Brotherhood." He couldn't keep the awe out of his tone. "You—you _run _this whole damn thing!"

Elbereth's eyes were strangely sad as she smiled. "I wasn't at the time," she said quietly. "The Brotherhood didn't find me until months later." He couldn't believe it was actually her. The child from prison was gone, and in her place stood a much older woman. How had she aged that much? And he remembered her eyes being green, not brown…

"And as for being the leader…" She sighed, plucking on a sleeve of her black robe. "Well, it's a recent promotion." He couldn't help but notice the bitterness that had crept into her tone.

"I'm sorry I hit you," she continued. "I thought you were a Legion spy, and I have to think of my Family first. You do understand."

"Of course." He nodded. He suddenly thought of the day he was recruited, and had thought that there could not possibly be a more bizarre conversation than that one. How wrong he'd been.

"I'll let you rest now. Again, I do apologize. When you're feeling up to it, I do hope you'll tell me the story of how you came to us. I'm sure it's a fascinating one." She smiled thinly.

"Of course…Listener." And for the first time, a flicker of laughter flashed across her face. Then she was gone, a shadow drifting down the hallway as Arquen hurried after her. And as he considered the full circle his life had come in, he wondered, for the first time, whether the gods might toy with mortals' lives after all.


	33. Chapter 30: Last Call to Chorrol

Chapter 30: Last Call to Chorrol

"One, two, three, _jump!_" At the shout, the girl neatly sprung atop the crate, although her arms quivered under the weight of the iron shield she held over her head. "Again: one, two three, _jump!_" The girl scrambled down, and jumped again. This time, her legs nearly buckled beneath her, and she teetered on the edge for a moment before regaining her balance.

"Can we _stop _yet? I'm _tired_," she wheezed. My eyes narrowed.

"You think in a fight your opponent will back off if you get tired?" I demanded. Her lower lip protruded as she pouted, shaking her head. "Just one more." She did as requested, then sagged off the crate, letting the shield clang onto the floor.

"Listener," she panted. "I swear you're trying to kill me." I rolled my eyes.

"Think what you like," I said, "but one day you just might be thanking me." Much as I had, Marisa had come to the Sanctuary without training or experience. But I had been in numerous small fights by the time I was recruited, whereas Marisa didn't even have that. Her small size was a major disadvantage as well; she would have to be exceptionally well practiced if she was to make it as an assassin. There were, of course, contracts that were well suited to her abilities—but things could always go wrong, and I was going to make damn well sure she'd be prepared if it came to that.

The girl rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah," she muttered, scrambling to her feet. She stretched an arm across her body with a wince, and I tried not to laugh.

"Yes, make sure you take the time to stretch. You'll be hurting tomorrow if you don't." I drifted toward the door. "Keeping doing the exercises we did today for the rest of the week, but without the added weight. You want to get stronger, not hurt yourself. And one more thing." I paused, trying to keep the smile from my face. "Talk to Arquen. She has some special instructions for you."

Marisa paused in the middle of wiping her sweat-streaked face to stare at me. "About what?" she asked suspiciously. Again, I fought to keep my face straight.

"It's not for me to say." And I exited the training room, finally allowing myself to break out into a smile. After months of putting her through the same drills Vicente had done with me those years ago, my protégé was finally ready for her first contract. It was a simple poisoning job, suited for an assassin with infiltration and alchemy skills—both of which Marisa possessed. I had talked it over with Arquen in great detail beforehand, and we had decided that it was finally time. It was exciting, but at the same time nothing short of terrifying. I was proud of her progress, but although I knew she could handle herself, thoughts of all the horrible ways it could go wrong swirled through my head. If anything were to happen, I would be the one responsible. Those were the kind of thoughts that had been ever-present since I was named Listener.

It was hard. The ebb and flow of organized death had been placed directly in my hands. The anger never dissipated—there were times it would suddenly surge through me, and I would have to fight to keep from yanking Shadowmere's reins too hard, or snapping at the nearest person, or even putting a fist through the wall. And then there were the ghosts. Any time I spent in the Sanctuary, I could practically feel their accusatory stares, and the guilt would well up just as fresh and new as if the Purification had just happened. They were aching holes in my heart that I couldn't fill, no matter what I did. Training with Marisa helped, though, as if in some way I was carrying out Vicente's legacy. And Arquen, I had discovered, really wasn't all that bad. I would never forgive her, but she was my Sister, and she really had done a fine job of rebuilding the Sanctuary. I would never forget the night, just a couple weeks ago, that I had arrived to find them all sitting down to dinner together, laughing over some joke—just as Ann and Vicente and all the rest and I had what seemed to be so long ago. Could it have really only been a year? Our family had been "different," as Vicente had put it, but here they were, a whole new generation carrying out that legacy. And there was evidence of similar bonds forming in the other Sanctuaries. At least there was that small amount of good coming from my new rank.

I briefly nodded in response to Caius' wave as I passed through the main hall and began my ascent up the well ladder. The man made me incredibly nervous—of all people, the Legion guard from my time in prison, the one who had shown such an interest in my killings—_would _be the one to turn up in my Sanctuary. He had shown nothing but dedication to the family, and was absolutely deadly with a bow, but I still didn't like it. My past seemed to have reared its ugly head, and it felt uncomfortably close—especially this time of year.

I sighed as I emerged into the late afternoon sunshine. I had spent the past several days on the road, and I was dead tired. Ungolim had had the right idea—residing in Bravil and having the Speakers come to him to receive contracts. But taking them to the Speakers myself facilitated a more hands-on approach throughout the entire Brotherhood—which was what it was in desperate need of, I thought grimly. No traitor would rise to power under my watch.

But my duties were done for the week. Leyawiin would always be the first city I visited, followed by Anvil, Bruma, and finally Cheydinhal. Initially, Anvil had been the last on the route, as it had required the greatest amount of work. Cheydinhal hadn't been the only Sanctuary affected—the rest had experienced a drastic reduction in numbers as well. But Anvil had been the worst by far. Directly under Bellamont's command, all of its family members had been slaughtered, and the cave it had been located in had been collapsed.

But that had been remedied by a visit to the hidden safe in Ungolim's house—the Dark Brotherhood treasury. It was terribly depleted, Arquen had said, but it was enough—enough to buy a dilapidated mansion in town. It had turned out to be haunted, but the ghosts had been dealt with, and the expansive basement made a perfect Sanctuary. I'd appointed Fafnir—my partner in crime on that long-ago contract in Skingrad—Speaker, and he now had two assassins under his command. A small Sanctuary, but effective and efficient—I no longer had to worry about them, and I could turn my attention back to Cheydinhal—and Marisa's training. Now, however, it was time for the other small comfort I allowed myself.

Shadowmere and I stopped and rested during the night, and it was mid morning when we reached our destination. I slipped from the saddle and looped the reins over her head, allowing her to drink from the pond as I waved to the figure waiting at the dock on the other side. As we trekked around to the north side, the figure came dashing forward. Shadowmere threw her head up, but otherwise seemed accustomed to this ritual.

"Lily!" Dar-Ma cried, throwing her arms around me. "How have you been? Has business been good? How's Shadowmere?" She never had out grown her habit of asking an excessive amount of questions.

"Good, yes, and fine, as you can see," I replied with a small chuckle once she had finally released me. It had been the oddest twist of fate that had thrown us back together. The ever-so-reputable head of the Chorrol Mages Guild had apparently wanted a former colleague dead—and I had assigned that contract to my own Sanctuary. And it just so happened that Arquen had been out trying to recruit at the time, so I had gone to make the arrangements in her stead. And that had been when I'd run into Dar-Ma, who had joined the Guild and was staying late working on some research.

Judging from the expression on the Wizard's face when she'd popped out of the basement, I had been half afraid he was about to perform a second Black Sacrament right then and there. But when she had started screeching with delight, the new expression that took over was nearly enough to make me double over with laughter. Still, I had snickered when the door had finally closed behind me. Let that teach him to conduct Brotherhood business right in the middle of his guild hall. He'd been lucky that it'd been her and not anyone else who walked in.

But the girl in question was now stroking Shadowmere's forelock. "Hello, pretty girl," she crooned. "Aren't you just the sweetest thing? You're being good for Lily?" Hearing my cantankerous mare referred to as "sweet" was enough to actually make me snort with laughter. Oddly enough, though, she had taken an instant liking to Dar-Ma, although the girl did tend to have a knack with animals. However, Shadowmere's affection for the girl did _not _extend to her mount, as we had discovered the first time we had rode out here to meet. In fact, Blossom had glanced up from her grazing and was sidling away. The poor mare still had a scar on her flank.

With a sigh, I removed Shadowmere's saddle and carefully sat it down on the worn, smooth wood of the dock before rifling through my saddlebags. "I'll leave you two to your courtship while I change," I called as I stepped behind the trunk of a massive oak, but there was no reply save Dar-Ma's continuous crooning. Rolling my eyes, I pushed back my hood and shed my heavy black robe. It was _hot _today, the heat seeming to rise in waves from the ground itself, and being swathed in dark wool didn't help one bit. Apparently Dar-Ma had had the same thought; the Journeyman's green robe was slung over a tree branch several feet away.

I then peeled out of my armor, which was sticking to my skin with sweat. Grimacing, I quickly changed into the clothing I'd brought: a lightweight linen vest and matching pants. Scraping my damp hair up off my neck, I secured it on top of my head. It was starting to get long again, and I was once again struck with awe that everything that had transpired in the past year had, in fact, really only been a year ago._ Find the traitor... _It was a distant echo now, but still enough to send a shiver of ice down my spine, despite the day's warmth. With a shudder, I pushed that thought from my mind and padded barefoot over to the dock. This was my time to be Lily—not Elbereth, not the traitor's pawn, not the Listener—and _nothing _was going to interfere with that.

Dar-Ma glanced up as I approached, her feet dangling over the edge into the cool water. "I took her bridle off and just set it down with your other things," she informed me, pointing to where my mare was sniffing through some greenery—pausing only to fix Blossom with a devilish stare.

"Brave woman." I settled down next to her, dropping my feet in as well. "Maybe three people total have ever dared to willingly go near her head. Devil horse has fangs of steel." Dar-Ma laughed.

"Oh, she's not that bad," she chided. "She's just a little insecure. I suppose she's had trouble making friends, that's all." I couldn't help but roll my eyes at the characterization of my monstrous mare as socially anxious.

"Yeah, yeah." I grimaced as the words left my mouth. I was starting to sound like Marisa. "How've your studies been?" The Argonian brightened.

"Oh, wonderful," she exclaimed. "I actually got to work with a visiting mage last week. He gave me some really excellent pointers. My spells have gotten substantially stronger." Although the Chorrol guild hall specialized in conjuration, Dar-Ma was concentrating on destruction magic. Although the Chorrol mages seemed to do a decent job of instructing her, her real training came when battlemages passed through. "In fact, the other day Teekeeus said I could probably make Evoker before the year's up."

"Really?" My face began to split into a genuine grin. "Congratulations!"

"Well, it's still a long way off," she said modestly, smoothing her skirts. "How's your business going?" she asked, changing the subject. I hesitated.

"Going…well," I said smoothly. "We sent a rather large shipment to Leyawiin recently." Which was in part true: as the last to fall, the Leyawiin Sanctuary was the largest, and therefore received the bulk of the contracts. Dar-Ma, however, was under the impression that I was a merchant of magical stones. When she'd walked into the middle of my meeting with Teekeeus, she'd immediately launched an arsenal of questions at me. I had explained my dark robes and armor (and generally sinister appearance) by telling her I wore them to better blend into the shadows of the Ayleid ruins I plundered for welkynd and varla stones. And she seemed to buy it. It made sense, after all. It was mercenary's work—something the ragged, scrappy girl she had known could have broken into. And it would explain my presence in the guild hall. However, I had forgotten that she never ceased with her questions, and I was constantly forced to make up stories about a business I knew virtually nothing of.

"How's Marisa?" she continued. "Has she gotten any better with a bow?" That was one small truth I had shared with my old friend. No one would be searching for an orphaned fifteen year-old from the Waterfront—especially seeing as she had never been caught or convicted for any of her crimes. Caius and N'ohbody, on the other hand, were already hardened criminals, and so I stayed quiet about them.

"She has," I said with a smile. "Your advice about correcting her stance has really helped her." We continued to chat as the sun climbed overhead. I answered her questions with evasions and half truths. The lying was uncomfortable, but not nearly as uncomfortable as the rest of my life, I thought wryly. It was so strange to sit here with Dar-Ma, so strange to think I had known her before the Brotherhood. But the strangest part was that I had had a life before the all the madness of the past several years had claimed me. So perhaps that was the reason I rode out here weekly, to the little pond west of Chorrol. It reminded me of what it was like to be a real person.

The hours wore on. Dar-Ma summoned skeletons and made them do horrible, clumsy dances before blasting them apart. We dove into the pond itself, the cool greenness closing out the blazing intensity above. And finally, back on land, Dar-Ma returned to her books, while I lay flat on the dock, half-dozing in the peace of the summer afternoon. I was growing dark, I thought lazily as I stared at the arm I'd raised to shield my eyes. Even darker than I'd been when I was about thirteen or fourteen, after the week spent being scorched by the Elsweyr sun. How long ago had _that _been? But those were exactly the thoughts I had come here to get away from.

My eyes snapped open as a nearby rustling tore me from my musings. I nudged Dar-Ma as I sprung to my feet, signaling her to be quiet. For a moment, her face showed confusion and she looked as though she was about to speak, but she caught on to my urgency as she, too, heard the sound. I lightly ran along the dock on the balls of my feet, quickly retrieving my sword from my pack. I had already drawn the Blade of Woe, and I switched it to my other hand as I grabbed my primary weapon. Dar-Ma had settled into crouch, tiny ice crystals forming above one palm, a flickering ball of flame over the other. She glanced at me worriedly, but her mouth settled into a grim line. The source of the noise was getting closer, and as I took note of the pattern, my hopes that it had simply been a harmless animal were dissipated. Someone was headed our way fast—and it was doubtful that they were friendly. They rarely were. And that was when the shout broke out.

"Hey! Wood Elf! Keep your thieving hands to yourself or I'm calling the guards! Tree hugger! The only good Bosmer is a dead Bosmer!" The string of slurs was so unexpected and bizarre that I nearly lowered my weapon, blinking in surprise. But it was something beyond that: the way the Black Marsh accent was pitched in a high, mocking tone—and the only person I knew who would find this amusing. I took a deep breath.

"Slimy, double-crossing lizard," I called, "keep _your _thieving hands to yourself. What did you say your name was? Uhmussey? Maybe I'll just call you Head-Up-His-Ass." There was a pause, the rustling going silent. I caught a glimpse of Dar-Ma, staring at me as though I had sprouted another head. "Come on out, Amusei." And then he appeared, grinning wickedly, scales glittering in the sun. I rolled my eyes as he strode forward.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't my old friend Lily," he chortled.

"You _know _him?" Dar-Ma murmured in my ear. She had allowed her spells to dissipate, but had nervously moved to my side. "He's _cute_."

"Idiot." I shoved him as he laughed merrily. "What were you _doing_, skulking around in the woods like that? We might have killed you."

"So serious!" he gasped in mock horror. "What happened to the Lily I knew? That girl had a sense of humor."

"It's been over three years, Amusei," I reminded him quietly. "A lot can happen in that time."

Something in his expression shifted, as though a cloud had rolled over the light in his eyes. "True," he said solemnly. And suddenly, a familiar yet entirely unwelcome sensation was back, a squeezing in the pit of my stomach—the same one I was seeing in Amusei. Fear. The thief was never afraid. Even when he'd been imprisoned by a deranged countess, facing torture and death, he had been merely cautious…serious…_angry_,even—but not afraid.

"What were you doing out here in the woods, Amusei?" I suddenly noticed his sweaty leather armor, covered with bits of debris from the woods—and what appeared to be scorch marks. I swallowed hard. Something was not right here. He looked at me with a weary expression, and finally his shoulders heaved, the cheerful, cocky persona melting away.

"I came from Kvatch." That was all he said as he looked expectantly at me, obviously waiting for some kind of reaction. I blinked.

"What's that supposed to mean to me, Amusei?" My Listener voice was creeping back, and I felt a flash of irritation at its appearance on my afternoon off. But whatever was happening here was quickly taking precedence. Amusei began to laugh mirthlessly.

"You don't know. Gods' blood, you honestly don't know." The laughter faded away. "I was wondering why the two of you were out here by yourselves, but now it makes sense."

"Amusei! What. Happened?" My teeth were gritting together.

"Kvatch was attacked by daedra." He said it so simply, so plainly, it was as though it were the truth. Poor devil, he actually _believed _it, expected _us _to believe it. The idea was ludicrous. As if a conjuror, even gang of conjurors, could summon up enough to be a threat. The City Watch, the Mages Guild, the Fighters Guild…all would join in and quickly put down the riot. It was the City Watch's sworn duty, the Mages Guild hated the effect rouge mages had on its reputation, and the Fighters Guild was always looking for a fight. And to top it all off, there was a near-army of arena combatants housed right there in the city. So what was the problem?

But he seemed to grow angry under my disbelieving stare. "It was a _nightmare_. Kvatch is _gone._"

"Amusei…" I began, but he cut me off.

"There was a job there, and I was just having a drink in a local tavern. And then the…the sky turned red, and the ground started shaking. They said it was an earthquake, but then all I could think about was Red Mountain, and so I said to myself, 'job be damned, I'm getting out of here.' I had just made it outside the city gates when it opened." He had clearly lost his mind—only he hadn't. He was completely coherent.

"When _what _opened?"

His face had gone ashy. "A gate. That's the only way I can describe it. A damned gate to Oblivion itself." Suddenly, I found that my mouth had gone very dry.

"Amusei," I said slowly. "That's impossible. The Dragonfires provide a barrier, a barrier that prevents daedra from crossing over into our…" And then suddenly, from a corner of my memory, something arose, words spoken to me long ago, fighting through a vampiric haze… _Dragonfires grow dimmer…may go out entirely…invasion from Oblivion… _And then, in the present, Amusei spoke, saying the very last words I ever wanted to hear.

"Lily, the Dragonfires have gone out."

"_What path can be avoided whose end is fixed by the almighty Gods_?" The white-haired man smiled at me as he asked the question.

"_He's right. You have been marked by Aedra and Daedra alike_." The vampire's red eyes were accusatory as he stared me down.

"_And marked by Sithis_," the shriveled old woman chimed in. "_Don't you see? At last, it must make sense! There is no escaping your destiny, child_."

"_Indeed_." The white-haired man nodded in agreement. "_And yours is bound with mine, with Tamriel's. You must stand against the Prince of Destruction. He must not have the Amulet of Kings! You must stand_." Only I wasn't standing. Kneeling perhaps, or lying down, waiting to die. Or perhaps hovering, like the abomination I'd killed in the Anvil Sanctuary. Nearly everyone I'd touched in the past four years had been irreparably damaged, plowed over in my haste as I fled. I had been forged into an instrument of death. I'd been running since I was thirteen, and not once had it occurred to me to stop and face what was behind me.

But at this point, I didn't even know. A dark-eyed man? An angry mob? The Legion? An empty Sanctuary? A faceless traitor? Or perhaps truth. Perhaps my destiny.

And then came the horrible thought that maybe the old man had been right. That the Amulet really did have power, that there was another heir, that maybe all this could have been avoided. "_Your righteous anger has put you under the impression that you have the right to do whatever you like_," the shriveled woman reminded. And I thought of the anger I had felt when I returned home from prison to discover my family—the family I had _killed _for to keep it safe—was gone. They had left me behind. After what I had done for them, they had left me. _I was a child. I didn't know. I couldn't have possibly understood. Suddenly, I had nothing and I was forced to learn to take care of myself._ But the excuse sounded hollow as it rang between my ears. In truth, I had abandoned the Emperor's mission because, as the Night Mother had pointed out, I was angry.

I had been angry, and now people were dying. Not carefully orchestrated death, designed to be quick and bring in the septims—not long-overdue revenge—not even based on a grudge solely for pleasure—although each of these was horrible in its own way. This was an entire city. Widespread devastation. "_How many must die for you? Your sins have grown many_," the witch said softly. I had a limited knowledge of daedric creatures, but I knew enough to understand what would have happened in Kvatch. People would have been dragged through the streets. Suffering. Burning. Dying. Slow, painful death. "_You must be purified_." Once so terrifying, the witch now seemed only sad. _How?_

"_Make a choice._" The somber little girl was the last to speak. "_Do what you were meant to do, or watch the world burn. Only two options. So make your choice. Make it right now._" Her green were hard.

"_Close shut the jaws of Oblivion_," the white-haired man urged. "_You alone must stand_."

"_Make a choice!_" The girl was shouting now. "_This is your last chance. What are you going to do?_"

"Lily?" The ghosts floated away as Amusei's voice broke into my thoughts. "Are you all right?" Now he looked worried, awkwardly shuffling his feet. Dar-Ma was staring at me, concern in her ruby eyes. "I'm—sure the City Watch got the situation under control?" he ventured doubtfully. He didn't understand—after all, how _could _he?—but he was trying to help. And I made my choice.

"I'm going to Chorrol." Quickly, I began to shed my linens and wriggle into my armor, despite the fact that Dar-Ma and Amusei were standing right there, blinking in surprise.

"What?" Amusei, of course, was the one to bluntly express the confusion for the both of them.

"No time to explain." I buckled the final strap and whistled for Shadowmere.

"I don't understand," Dar-Ma objected as I slipped the bit between the mare's teeth, tugging the headstall over her ears. "The deadra—they're not coming _here_, are they?" I could hear the panic rising in her tone, and I grimaced.

"No." I was sure of my answer as I swung the saddle up—or was I? I didn't know what would await me when I reached Weynon Priory, but surely _something _would come of it to stop the invasion. "I just remembered I'm late for an appointment, that's all." Four years late—but not a day longer. I slid my arms through the straps of my pack and snatched my robe off the tree it hung from. "Don't worry—everything's going to be fine."

And I mounted Shadowmere, turning her toward the road and pressing my heels into her sides. She surged forward, her feet drumming out a quick tempo as we raced east. The anticipation I had felt as I hunted the traitor was once again building. It was time for a reckoning.


	34. Chapter 31: The Night That I Died

Chapter 31: The Night That I Died

_Jauffre_

"Grandmaster? There's someone here to see you." Jauffre glanced up at Piner's soft voice. The man was young, scarcely thirty, but a breathing problem had forced him into early retirement. However, he had seemed to embrace the priestly life, and Jauffre was beginning to have trouble imagining the priory without him.

"Thank you, Brother Piner. Send him up." Jauffre set aside his book, placing a scrap of parchment between the pages to mark his place. Piner opened his mouth as though about to say something, but then simply shrugged and turned to thud back down the stairs. He heard the murmur of the man's voice and a soft reply, and then a second set of feet thumping up the stairs.

He instantly saw what Piner had been about to correct him on, as the figure that walked in was not a man but a woman. A Bosmer wearing a dark, close-fitting armor covered in dust, with a drawn, haggard face and weary brown eyes. "You're Jauffre?" she asked, hanging back toward the stairs. Her voice was low, tired.

"I am Brother Jauffre, yes. What brings you to Weynon Priory?" Beneath the table, his hand began slowly inching toward his blade. This woman practically smelled of trouble, and her odd behavior was doing her no favors. She had begun moving forward slowly, her steps careful and deliberate.

"I don't actually know." She paused, then gave a short laugh. "Do you think there's such thing as destiny?" The philosophical question was not what he had been expecting, and it threw him off a bit.

"I believe that a sense of purpose can serve as a powerful motivator," he replied evenly.

"No." She shook her head, a hint of anger flaring cross her face. "I'm not talking about _purpose_. A _sheep _can have purpose. I mean real, prophesied, foretold-in-the-stars, marked-by-the-gods _destiny._" The anger had faded, and now she seemed merely sad. Jauffre sighed.

"Each event is preceded by Prophecy. But without the hero, there is no Event."

"What?" Her face was blank, confused.

"Zurin Arctus' take on the matter."

"Who?" He gave another sigh. This was going nowhere, and he was beginning to suspect that this woman was hiding her true purpose for being here.

"The Underking. You _have _heard of the Warp in the West?" To his surprise, her face cleared and she nodded. "And in response to your question, I believe the Gods lay our paths before us, but do not force us to take them." She was silent for a moment, standing motionless in the center of the room.

"Then what's the point?"

"The Gods' will, or at least the end result, is always done. They do have their preferred methods, yes, but the choice lies with mortals." The woman had dropped her face into a hand.

"Are we talking about Aedra or Daedra here? Or something else?" she asked tiredly. Jauffre found himself frowning.

"I'm a servant of the Nine," he said sharply. "Do you really need to ask that question?" Her gaze snapped up to his, her eyes going hard. Sensing her beginning to back away, he hastily added, "The Aedra gave of themselves to create Mundus; for that reason, they are our gods. While the Daedra have similar powers, the Aedra are much more invested in our lives." But to his surprise, she only seemed to grow angrier.

"I _know!_" she snapped. "I spent half my life thinking I'd be a priestess. I _know _all this." She began to frantically pace the width of his office. She was extremely agitated, but she had made no move to draw a weapon. Still, he eyed the shortsword at her side as he gripped the handle of his own weapon.

"Which Divine?" he asked softly. She paused, half-turning to face him.

"Kynareth," she replied. She gave a short laugh. "It makes sense, I suppose. As a Bosmer raised in Valenwood by a Nine-fearing mother…" She shrugged. Jauffre frowned again.

"A native, then?" She nodded. "From which part of Valenwood do you hail?"

"Northeast of Silvenar. There's a small village. And our homestead was northeast of that."

Jauffre nodded. "I travelled to Valenwood once, in my youth. To Elden Root." Something in the woman's eyes sparked.

"My mother was from Elden Root." She gave a small smile. "I've never been there, though. I don't think even she ever went back once she left."

"Ah." Jauffre allowed himself to return the smile. "And I have never ventured to the northern reaches. I've heard it's quite beautiful, though.

She shrugged. "It's home," she said simply. Her body language had relaxed, and she had stopped pacing. Deciding that she was no longer posing a threat—for the time being—Jauffre decided to take advantage of the unspoken truce that connection had provided and press her further.

"So tell me. How does a native Silvenarian become a priestess of Kynareth?" To his surprise, she actually rolled her eyes.

"I wasn't a priestess," she said. "Not yet, anyway. You had to be fifteen to join the Imperial Cult, and, well…" She shrugged again as a faraway look glazed over her eyes. "I was thirteen when the uprising happened." For a moment, her words meant nothing, but then something clicked.

"You mean in 429?" She nodded grimly, and he sighed.

"By the Nine." He shook his head. "There was a pocket near Silvenar, wasn't there?"

She nodded. "In the very village I described." He stared at her.

"You were very lucky to have made it out unscathed," he said sternly. "That was a nasty piece of business right there."

"It made no sense," she sighed. "They had no business meddling with that. If they had to have their revenge, there were other ways to go about it. Why not another Wild Hunt?" Jauffre frowned.

"Be careful what you wish for," he said darkly. "The last Wild Hunt was both tragic and horrific, and did nothing for your people's political situation or reputation. And besides, such a petty, senseless campaign would in no way garner Y'ffre's blessing."

"Why the sudden singing of Y'ffre's praises? What happened to being such a devout servant of the Nine?" She smirked, and for a moment, he felt his blood boil.

"The Nine _are _our gods. But that does not mean that there aren't other forces at work as well—some benevolent, others not so much." He bit the words out, but he felt himself cooling off as he regarded the confusion in her eyes. "Do you know much of the Bosmeri pantheon?" he asked, suddenly curious. She slowly shook her head.

"No. My mother's family…well, we can just say they didn't condone such 'heathen' practices." She suddenly looked embarrassed.

"You should learn," he chided, albeit gently. "Of course, I cannot advocate worship of them, but it is still part of your heritage. It may give you a better understanding of your people."

Her eyebrows shot upwards. "So you're saying you _support _the uprising?" she demanded, her voice heavy with barely-concealed anger.

"Not at all," he corrected. "Merely that I sense much conflict over this issue in you. Perhaps understanding the motivation behind it may give you some peace of mind." He had expected that darkness to return to her eyes, but instead a curious expression had crossed over her face, and she changed the subject.

"Tell me, though. You're part of the Imperial Clergy. What was the official word on it?" He leaned back in his chair.

"A few groups of Bosmer had grown angry with the Imperial expansion, viewing it as a blasphemy to their religion and their way of life. They had joined together to attempt to raise up a long-dead sorcerer from Ayleid times," he began, but she was nodding in understanding.

"Yes, yes. I just wanted to make sure." Sure of what? But she was still speaking. "Although Umaril isn't actually dead. Meridia allowed him to escape after Pelinal Whitestrake slew him." She paused, apparently taking note of Jauffre's intent stare. "What is it?"

"Not many people know of that." He crossed his arms over his chest, but she once again rolled her eyes.

"It's in Chapel textbooks," she protested, but he cut her off.

"I was asked to review the Chapel curriculum a few years back. The books distinctly say he was killed. Very few think it wise to discuss theology in depth with children." It was her turn to narrow her eyes.

"I'm smart," she shot back. "I was going to join the Mages Guild when the Imperial Cult didn't work out."

"So you're a mage, then?" And she was once again agitated, muscles tensing, pacing back and forth.

"No." The reply was short, clipped. Jauffre slowly exhaled, and took a gamble.

"You feign ignorance—on the gods, on politics—but I strongly suspect you know more than you let on." At that, she stopped and turned to face him, an unreadable expression on her face.

"You're right," she said, slowly advancing toward his desk. "But I didn't come here to argue with you on every higher power ever to exist, or to dissect my past." She planted her palms on his desk, leaning down to stare him head on. "I came to ask about the Aedra." Her gaze drifted down to the side. "And you can put that dagger away. I'm no threat to you." She slowly drew back, and he resheathed the dagger he'd quietly drawn, but kept his grip on the hilt.

"You say that the Gods' will is always done," she continued, resuming her pacing. "How do they choose their servants, then? _Why _do they choose their servants?"

Jauffre sighed, struck with a sudden urge to beat his head against his desk. She claimed she had no interest in debating theology, but she was asking a question that few scholars knew the answer to, or would even attempt to answer. "Some say that the Gods choose those who are pure in heart to fulfill their work," he said slowly. "Others say they choose their servants in order to give them a chance at redemption." She suddenly wheeled on him.

"Well, which is it?" she demanded. He felt his brow crease even further.

"Perhaps both." He sighed. "There are those who have served the Nine all their days, but even they may falter. And sometimes, even the wickedest may turn to a righteous path. There is no easy answer to this question," he warned. But she was once again wearing a hole in the floor of his office.

"So their will is always done, and they pick and choose their agents with no clear criteria. Is destiny unavoidable, then?"

"I would say, 'yes.' No path can be avoided whose end is fixed by the almighty gods." And although his words seemed inoffensive enough to his own ears, she froze. She turned to him, and to his shock, her face was full of anguish, eyes bright with tears.

"But what if you do everything in your power to escape it? What if you run in the complete opposite direction?" The speed of her pacing increased, and she began gesturing wildly with her hands. "What if you make a terrible mistake? What if you end up so far down a path there is no going back? What if the gods couldn't have _possibly _chosen a worse person for the job?"

She was downright frantic, her voice rising as she gripped handfuls of her hair, eyes darting from side to side like those of a cornered animal. Partially sliding out his dagger, he chose his words carefully. "Do you speak from personal experience?" he asked gently. She hesitated, and her face slowly crumbled.

"I'm _evil_," she whispered, her voice low and ragged. "I've done horrible things. You tell yourself you do what you have to to get by, but then you start making excuses, and before you know it, you don't even recognize the stranger in the mirror." Her shoulders sagged, and she furiously scrubbed at her eyes.

"'Evil' is a very strong term to so loosely assign." Very carefully, he folded his hands on top of his desk. "I believe very few are truly evil."

"You don't understand." She shook her head. "I do exactly as I please with no thought for consequence. I've grown beyond caring about the lives I've destroyed, the souls I've put in jeopardy. I've done this for so long, it's all I know how to do. And I don't foresee that changing at any point in the future." Her calloused, defiant words should have made him start calling for help, but there was something in their delivery—the defeat in her tone, the slump of her shoulders—that somehow stirred up something strangely akin to pity in him.

"You have no remorse, then." But it was a question, not an accusation. She gave a short laugh.

"Remorse? I have nothing _but _remorse. Every day, I wish I could turn back time, set things to right. I would have done things so very differently. And even more so than that, I wish I could _stop_." She was staring past him, out the window into the bright afternoon sunshine, and for a split-second, he could have sworn her eyes were a sinister orange. "Sometimes, the words of a prayer come back to me. But there's nothing that can be done, so I don't bother."

"True evil is something very rarely encountered." Jauffre finally spoke after the silence had stretched unbearably thin. "One could argue that evil lurks in the hearts of all, and yes, I believe that each of us have our share of darkness. But the very nature of evil is corrupting. It is never aware of itself, and it is certainly not repentant. I believe if you were truly evil, as you seem to think you are, you would not be standing here before me today having this discussion." She stared blankly at him, face wobbling ever so slightly, and Jauffre had never felt so old. He'd been in her shoes once, as a young Blade. Memories of that ill-fated trip to Valenwood he'd spoken of came drifting back, and he suddenly wondered if this was all some bizarre test sent by the Divines.

"I brought you the Amulet of Kings."

"_What?_" Instantly, Jauffre was snapped back to the present. She reached into a pouch at her side and produced an oversized red gem. It caught the sunlight spilling in the window, scattering patterns of light across the ceiling. He felt his breath catch in his throat, his stomach giving a sharp lurch. It was impossible. The Amulet was lost, stolen by the Mythic Dawn the night of the assassination… "You'd better give that to me." Wordlessly, she stepped forward and gently deposited it on his desk.

He reached it for tentatively, scarcely daring to hope. The glowing center gem, the eight surrounding it, and the _temperature_—radiating with warmth from the energy of an era's worth of dead emperors… "By the Nine, this _is _the Amulet of Kings!" He didn't even bother to attempt to keep the awe out of his voice. "How did you get this? You'd better explain yourself now."

"The Emperor gave it to me. I was there when he died." Something suddenly clicked in his head.

"Then you-you're Lily," he said incredulously. Her expression blanched into one of pure shock.

"How do you know my name?" she asked sharply. The hand creeping toward her sword didn't escape his attention.

"I assume you remember Baurus?" Now that his initial shock had worn off, he could feel himself growing increasingly disgruntled. "His story of a mystery girl who disappeared with the Amulet did not go over well, as I'm sure you can imagine." He stared back down at the gem on his desk. "Only now, it seems there was truth to it." Guilt flashed through him as he remembered how he had berated the young Blade, accused him of madness, of treason... He glanced back up at the girl, whose expression had grown stoic and wooden once again. Remembering her distress, he sighed. "Sit down. We have much to discuss." She hesitated, but moved forward to sit at the chair in front of his desk.

"So. You've had this in your possession for the past four years, and you've only just now thought to bring it here. May I ask why?" He tried not to let his tone grow accusatory.

"I…I _couldn't_." Her posture was slumped, defeated, and she was staring at her hands in her lap. "I was angry, I suppose. At least in the beginning. And holding on to it was my small form of revenge against the universe." Her lips twisted into a grimace. "I was young, and very foolish. And after that…" She shrugged, the words trailing off. "Things happened." From the steel forming beneath her jaw, he thought it best not to press further, especially considering the dark deeds she had hinted at earlier. "But then I heard about Kvatch…about the daedra. About the _gate_. That the Dragonfires are gone, and that it's all my fault." Her voice had gone very low, her eyes wide with a silent panic. And somehow, all he could think was what a burden that guilt must be to carry.

"Only the strange destiny of Uriel Septim could have brought you to me carrying the Amulet of Kings," he said with a sigh. "But only the Emperors truly understand the role of the Amulet, and of the meaning behind the rituals of coronation. And although perhaps recovering the Amulet sooner may have prevented it, at least you've brought it to us now. Either way, we can't know for certain." She shook her head slowly.

"No, it could have saved them. I know it." Her tone was full of resolution, and he knew it would be futile to argue with her. "Who is the Prince of Destruction?" she asked suddenly. "The Emperor spoke of him before he died. He said the Amulet needed to be kept safe from him." Jauffre frowned.

"Interesting," he said slowly. "The 'Prince of Destruction' refers to none other than Mehrunes Dagon, the Daedric lord. Strange, though, that the Emperor would name him specifically." He sighed. "He had a gift, though, a gift for prophecy. He had dreams. He was imprisoned in Oblivion for a time, you know, and some thought that time there changed him in the head. Others brought up Pelagius III, and suggested a family resemblance." His tone soured at that. "But I knew him for many years, and no matter how strange they seemed, what he saw in his dreams always came to pass." When he lifted his gaze to hers, her eyes were surprisingly gentle.

"You were his friend," she said softly. He smiled thinly at her wording.

"I was sworn to serve him. But he and I were very like-minded, and we often conversed at great lengths. The night that he died, I lost more than an emperor. I suppose in a way, I did think of him as a friend. I like to think he did as well." A brief silence fell between them, but then Lily broke it.

"He asked me to find his son," she said suddenly. "He said he had another, and that you would know about him." And there was no longer any doubt in his mind that the Gods had sent this woman to him.

"I am one of the few who know of his existence." The very problem he had been scrambling to find a solution to for the past eighteen hours suddenly had a whole new aspect. "Many years ago, I served as captain of the Blades. One night Uriel called me in to his private chambers. A baby boy lay sleeping in a basket. Uriel told me to deliver him somewhere safe. He never told me anything else about the baby, but I knew it was his son. From time to time he would ask about the child's progress. Now, it seems that this illegitimate son is the heir to the Septim Throne. If he yet lives," he added darkly. She seemed to sense his apprehension, as a frown her face as well.

"Where can I find him?" She asked the question slowly, as though afraid of the response. Jauffre closed his eyes.

"His name is Martin. He is a priest in the Chapel of Akatosh in Kvatch." He opened his eyes to meet her look of horror. "Yes, Kvatch. I cannot believe that the attack on Kvatch is a coincidence. The enemy seems to know all our secrets."

"I don't understand." Her speech was speeding up. "If he's the heir, what's he still doing there? Why wasn't he taken to the Elder Council? Is someone guarding him, at least?"

"Because we didn't have the Amulet!" Jauffre allowed his voice to rise. "Only a true heir of the blood can wear it. Without proof, how were we supposed to retrieve him? He would have no claim to the throne." Her face suddenly twisted, and for a brief instant, she dropped her head into her hands. But then she was on her feet, her face clear and determined.

"I'll go get him." And Jauffre breathed a silent sigh of relief at not having to ask. He nodded.

"Excellent. There is no time to lose. If there's anything you need, please ask. My resources here are limited, but I will help in any way I can."

"And the Amulet?" Her gaze slid to where it still lay on his desktop.

"It will be safest here with me. When you return with Martin, we will figure out our next move." She nodded, and began to move toward the stairs. "I truly thank you for this service you are doing us. All of Tamriel will thank you." She paused.

"The night that he died, I caught a glimpse of my true self for the first time. And I didn't like what I saw." She paused. "This is my chance to change that." And she slipped down the stairs. A few minutes later, there was the clattering of hooves on stone.

Jauffre sighed and leaned back in his chair, trying to massage the headache from his throbbing temples. It suddenly crossed his mind that perhaps the woman was a Hero. He snorted at the thought. Whatever crimes she had committed before the assassination had been enough to land her in prison—and according to her story, they had only multiplied in the years afterward. But at the same time, that often seemed to be the way with Heroes. And he had truly meant what he had said about redemption. He himself had received it, he mused, as he once again thought back to his youth. But no matter. The heir was going to be retrieved as quickly and discreetly as possible, thanks to her arrival. Now all there was left to do was wait—wait and pray.


	35. Chapter 32: The Jaws of Oblivion

Chapter 32: The Jaws of Oblivion

Only months before, Shadowmere had made the journey from Anvil to Bruma in a mere day. Now, however, she seemed to fight me at every step. Gritting my teeth in frustration, I dug my heels into her sides as she threw up her head, and not for the first time, I cursed Lucien Lachance for never attempting to do something about the mare's exceptional stubbornness. The longer this trip stretched out, the more anxious I was becoming.

My conversation with Jauffre had left me feeling unsettled, as though all my carefully-buried secrets had been unearthed, bare bones glistening in the harsh light of day to imbrue my every thought. I hadn't meant for the conversation to take the turns it had. There was something about his face, though—his unexceptional, plain, bland, boring, _stupid _face—that made me want to simultaneously bash it in and spill all my secrets. But there was just a _look_ in his beady little eyes—shrewdness, intelligence, perhaps a hint of danger—that, in a very small way, reminded me of Vicente. The two of them couldn't have been any more different—the Sithis-serving vampire and the devout Blade—but somehow, I got the feeling Vicente's response to my confessions would have been very similar. At least in delivery—but perhaps even content.

A sharp, unfamiliar scent flooded my senses, and I suddenly understood Shadowmere's apprehension. Smoke was drifting on the wind, sharp and acrid—heavier than it should have been had it come from a mere campfire. Amusei's face as he had told me of Kvatch's fate had been haunting me the entire journey, and suddenly, his quiet terror was my own. We were west of Skingrad, climbing a long winding hill up to the turnoff for Kvatch, and it had finally dawned on me that I was about to come face-to-face with some unknown devastation—devastation that I had unwittingly brought about. But Amusei had to have been exaggerating, right? The entire city couldn't have been destroyed. He himself had said he had escaped right at the onset of the attack, so how could he know? Besides, how many daedra could have really gotten through? Although it wasn't my specialty, I was a relatively proficient mage, and I could hardly conjure _anything_. It was _hard_, not just to pull something through, but to keep it there. But if the barriers were gone, if they'd found another way… My stomach was tied in knots at the thought of the heir. What if he was dead already? _Nine Divines, _please_. Don't punish all of Tamriel for my anger and pride. Keep him safe. _But the prayer died on my lips as we crested the hill. Kvatch _wasn't _dead, I though slowly, numbly. It had sprawled out right there-broken and smoldering and weeping-at the foot of the mountain.

I slid off of Shadowmere and quietly led her to the side. For a moment, I stood there silently, arms wrapped tightly around her neck as I had the night Lucien had died. "Stay here, girl," I whispered, face buried in her mane. "If any daedra come, you _run_, hear me? Straight back to Fort Farragut." Then I squared my shoulders and turned back to the camp. There were times I could swear the mare understood every word I said, and I desperately hoped this was one of those times.

The camp was filled with sounds of suffering as I tiptoed through. A maze of tents, their canvas walls black with soot, had been haphazardly pitched across the road, rescued possessions spilling out from their flaps—a few blackened paintings here, a pile of scorched furniture there. But even worse was the people themselves. An Orc girl, hardly more than a teenager, stared blankly at me as I passed, the greenish tint of her skin gone pasty grey. She was clutching the hand of a man—at least I thought it was a man—burnt beyond recognition. He was muttering something intelligible, and she appeared to wipe away tears as she spoke to him. All around me were sounds of crying, screams and wails of pain and grief—and the sickening, unmistakable odor of burnt flesh. "Excuse me." I spoke to a man rummaging through a burnt trunk. "Have you seen Martin? The priest?"

"The priest?" He gave me a blank look, appearing startled at having been spoken to. "The priest," he repeated wearily, scrubbing at his bloodshot eyes with a sooty hand. "I don't think he made it out of the city. Very few of us did." He returned to his task, and my blood ran cold. _Gods, no. _But he _had _said he didn't know for certain.

Several more people said the same: that they hadn't seen Martin, nor did they know of his fate. It just wasn't possible. How could I have doomed the entire Empire? _How could I have done this?_ I tried to ignore my racing heart, threatening to tear straight out of my chest. If nothing else, I would need to bring back his body. "Excuse me. I don't suppose either of you know what became of Martin?" I addressed two women, one who was sobbing openly, the other attempting to comfort her.

"The priest?" The crying woman looked up, dabbing at her puffy red eyes. "I saw him last night. He was leading a group of survivors into the Chapel." My heart leapt. At least there was _something_. Her companion glanced at me, her golden eyes glinting curiously.

"I don't think he made it out, though," she wearily warned me. "Don't get your hopes up."

"But if he is still alive, Savlian Matius would be the one to know." The crying woman had stopped crying. "He and some of the other guards…they helped us escape. Cut a path right through the daedra. He said they would go back, try to pick up more survivors…" She was trying to smile, but then her face wobbled, and she was crying again.

"You'll find him at the barricade at the top of the road." The other woman sighed. "He's trying to hold what's left of the Guard together." She paused. "But if you ask me, it's a lost cause. If I were you, I would turn in the opposite direction and get as far away from here as you can. Other cities have priests too, you know."

"I appreciate the concern, but I think I'll take my chances." I turned and headed toward the open road, breaking into a jog. About halfway up, however, I was forced to slow to a walk. It felt like less and less air was actually making it into my lungs, and I was beginning to cough. With a start, I suddenly noticed that the trees were bare and skeletal, the grass blackened. Despite the ash that had begun raining down, stinging my eyes, I picked up my pace. Whatever was waiting for me at the top, I was beginning to realize that it was probably far worse than I had imagined. Dawn had arrived, red fingers snaking through the thick boiling clouds above, tinting them orange. Too orange, I thought, but then I suddenly remembered that it was the middle of the night. And then I scaled the final crest of the hill.

And I understood. I understood the blank expressions, the tears, the hostility, the defeat. Because I knew what it was like to see your home burn. But the scene spread before me was so far beyond that, as though it had been cut straight from a nightmare. The city walls were blackened and crumbling, cloaked by a thick, foul-smelling smoke. Bodies lay everywhere, burned and mangled beyond recognition, but many, I noticed, were daedric creatures. Too many. An army of conjurers couldn't have produced that many. And above it all hung a blood-red sky, the likes of which had likely never been seen before on Nirn, crackling with lightning and screams of death. But the very worst part of it all was the Gate.

It stood there, smack-dab in front of the city gates, a mocking parody, an abomination of everything—_everything_—our world stood for. It sizzled with a white-hot heat, shooting out flames into the night. And before my very eyes, a group of monsters emerged from the impossible heat. Shouts rang out, and I suddenly noticed the group of white-clad figures rushing forth to meet them. The Kvatch City Guard, judging from the dark wolves adorning their cuirasses. Defending their city to the very end, against an unstoppable foe. But somehow—miraculously—they prevailed. They cut the daedra down, and although one of them fell, they marched back to the shoddily-constructed barricades forming a maze across the road. Victorious, only to be doomed to repeat the ordeal. Suddenly, one of them appeared to notice me, and he marched over in my direction, weapon drawn.

"Stand back, civilian!" he screeched. Yes—screeched. And despite all the horrors around me, it was that that made me stand still in shock. Perhaps under other circumstances, I might have burst out laughing. "This is no place for you. Get back to the encampment at once!" He was short and slight—bearing no physical resemblance of a soldier, but he projected an air of authority that instantly let me know who I was speaking to.

"Savlian Matius? What happened here?" It was obvious, of course, what had happened, but somehow, you just needed to hear someone _say _it to be able to really comprehend it.

"We lost the damn city, that's what," he said grimly. "It was too much, too fast. We couldn't have been any less prepared for this." He sighed. "Seems like they came out of nowhere. There were just so many of them…we were overwhelmed. Couldn't even get everyone out. There are still people trapped in there. Some made it into the Chapel, but others were just run down in the streets. The Count and his men are still holed up in the castle. And now we can't even get back into the city to help them, with that damned Oblivion Gate blocking the way!" He shook his head with a mixture of anger and defeat, then his head suddenly snapped in the direction of the Gate. "Hold!" he yelled, raising a hand. "Archers!" There was the creaking of bowstrings being drawn. "Don't charge until you can _see_ them coming!" Sensing my window of opportunity about to close, I quickly asked my real question.

"Captain, it is absolutely _imperative_ that I find the priest. Martin. I was told he was last seen headed for the Chapel. Do you know anything about what happened to him?" A quick look of surprise flashed across his face, but cleared almost instantly.

"I'm not the captain," he admitted, eyes once again locked on the Gate. "I'm just the highest ranking officer left alive, and someone's got to defend the camp." He quickly glanced over at me again. "But yeah. I saw the priest. If he's lucky, he's still trapped in there with the rest. If not…" His voice suddenly trailed off. "Here they come!" he called, addressing his men. "CHARGE!" And another wave of daedra appeared, and the soldiers raced forward to meet them. This time, though, they all trudged back to the barricade.

"All right," I said to Matius as he approached me once again. "What can I do to help?" He stared at me incredulously.

"You want to help?" he asked dubiously. "You're kidding, right?"

"I've been sent by the Grandmaster of the Blades. Believe me, this is the farthest thing from a joke." I crossed my arms over my chest as he stared at me, eyebrows raised.

"All right," he finally relented. "If you're certain about this, I think I can put you to use." He paused. "It'll likely mean your death, though. Are you sure?" he warned. I gulped, but strangely enough, I was.

"What do you need me to do?"

He turned and gestured toward the Gate. "That right there is our problem," he stated. "It's blocking the city gates, and we can't get by it to rescue the survivors. But it must be possible to close it, because the enemy closed the ones they opened in the intial attack. See the scorch marks?" He pointed to several large patches that were burnt far more heavily than the rest of their surroundings. "There and there, with the Great Gate in between." I didn't bother to ask the difference between the portal in front of me and a Great Gate. I actually wasn't sure I wanted to know. "I sent men in to see if they could try to close it, but they haven't come back."

"People can get through that thing?" I frowned. It looked like it would burn alive anyone who got close enough.

"Apparently." He shrugged. "But I need the men I have here to defend the barricade. They send a new wave through every few minutes." He hesitated then, and I knew what he was going to ask of me before he said it. "If you can…get in there, find out what happened to them. If they're alive, help them finish the job. If not…" His face twisted into an expression of guilt and pity, and I felt myself nodding. "Good luck." He made an attempt to smile, but his soot-streaked face made it seem more like a grimace. "It's a very brave thing you're doing."

There were several mummers from the soldiers as I stepped forward, weaving my way through the maze of barricades. I could feel the heat from the ground seeping through the soles of my boots as I crossed the battlefield, trying not to trip over the many bodies scattered across it. I unsheathed my sword, and I realized my hands were trembling. My legs, too, were wobbling, and my breath came in shuddering gasps. This was madness. I was willingly walking to my own death, like a sheep to slaughter, straight into Oblivion itself. Why was I doing this? _Why _was I _doing_ this?

Because this was my punishment, payment for the scores of lives lost before their time. For those murdered, cut down on the orders of their enemies, and for those burned alive by daedric fires or cut to ribbons, denied deliverance by my pride and stubbornness. Because the last hope for Tamriel lay beyond that gate, and going through it was the only way to bring him out. Images—of sights, of sounds, of smells—began to flash through my mind as I drew closer: sunlight cutting through the forests of Valenwood, the neat line of carefully-bottled potions that had gained me entrance to the Mages Guild, youthful laughter on a golden autumn afternoon, a fanged smile beneath deep red eyes. Funny, they always said your life flashed before your eyes before you died. But I didn't want to die. The dark whisper curled forward. _Why shouldn't you? _They _did._

I was so close now, I could smell the sulfur. I was drenched with sweat, boiling alive inside my armor. The flames glowed brighter still, and my legs ached to turn and run, to get as far away from it as I possibly could. Waves of heat flickered toward the sky. Inches now. Any closer, and my face would begin to melt away, I was certain of it. _Stendarr, have mercy._ I wasn't sure who I was begging mercy for: myself, the priest, or the survivors down the hill, but with the silent prayer spoken, I took the final step.

And landed of the ash-coated ground with a muffled thump. For a moment I stood, paralyzed. I was dead. I had died in the flames, and now I was trapped in Oblivion forever. But then I remembered that it was a portal. Of course I had ended up here. That had been the entire point.

My boots sank into the ashes as I stepped forward, sending up puffs that made me burst into a fit of coughing. That had to be a good sign. I wouldn't be coughing if I was dead—or would I? The world I had been emerged in was like that of the inside of a volcano, a dead, ash-covered landscape of barren rock—surrounded by a sea of lava. Several black, broken towers were scattered across the horizon, one in particular with an unsettling steady yellow light shining from the top, cutting through the smoke. And hovering over all of it was an eerie humming sound, so heavy one could have reached out and touched it.

But my haze was broken by shouting—a sound very human and distinctly _alive_. Stepping forward through the gloom, I caught sight of a lone figure in a Kvatch cuirass surrounded by scamps and Dremora. I cut through three of the scamps as I rushed toward him, my Ayleid blade cleaving through them cleanly. He had taken down one of the Dremora and was locked in combat with the second. I sent a wave of shock magic toward it, and it staggered, allowing him to finish it off.

His eyes were wide with panic when I reached him, and he was panting heavily—but not from exertion. "Thank the Nine!" he gasped. "Oh, I never thought I'd see another friendly face!"

"Matius sent me," I informed him, trying to ignore the fact that he was gripping my shoulders, as a drowning man clings to a rescuer. "He said you were trying to close the gate. Where are the others?" But I could easily guess at the answer.

"They took him…took him to the tower!" He began coughing heavily, struggling to speak. "We were ambushed…picked off one by one…they're over there…strewn all across that bridge…" He managed to collect himself, stifling the coughs. "But they took Menien off to the big tower. You have to save him! Please!" I didn't know who Menien was, but his eyes were darting from side to side, as though expecting a Dremora to leap out of thin air and take his head off. I had seen a similar expression on Antoinetta Marie's face many times before, and I realized that he was useless. Oblivion had gotten inside of him, and now the only thing to do was to get him out of Oblivion.

"You've done enough here. I'll take care of Menien. Go." I pointed over my shoulder toward the Gate. "Captain Matius needs your help." A look of wonder dawned across his face.

"The Captain is still holding the barricade? I thought I was the only one left." Tears of relief were beginning to stream down his face.

"He's still holding it, him and half the City guard. But the daedra keep coming. They need you," I assured him. He took a deep breath and nodded resolutely.

"Alright. I'll try to get out of here and…and let the Captain know what's going on."

"Hey. Look at me," I instructed. "What's your name?"

He swallowed hard. "I-Ilend Vonius, of…of the Kvatch City Guard." He said it tentatively, as though he was struggling to remember his very identity.

"You're going to be okay, Ilend. You're not going to _try_, you're going to _succeed_, understand? You've already survived Oblivion; now all you need to do is get _out_." He nodded numbly. "Now go." He ran off, disappearing into the gloom, and my façade of courage evaporated along with my bold words. I was now alone in Oblivion, and I was probably going to die here.

I tried to slow my breathing, looking up at the tower Ilend had indicated. If this Menien he had spoken of was there, that was a start, at least. Peering through the haze, I could just barely make out the bodies of the Kvatch guard strewn across the bridge to it, just as he'd said. If a whole contingent of soldier couldn't make it across, there was no way a lone assassin could. So was I expected to make a suicide run? There had to be another way.

I noticed what appeared to be a slight wearing-away of the rock, a patch where the ash was a little less thick, leading off to the side. A path? Ilend said they'd been ambushed on the bridge, after all. So there _had _to be another way through. Was this it? I headed in that direction. Sure enough, it was cutting through the landscape, disappearing around the mountain of rock the tower was situated on.

The path was treacherously narrow, given that it was situated precariously close to the edge of the lava. I had been on it for maybe ten minutes when a rumbling sounded from overhead. I jumped back just in time before a shower of boulders came crashing down, disappearing into the lava with a hiss. My heart thundered even louder than before. I would _not _die here on this Divine-forsaken plane of Oblivion, I resolved as I pushed forward. I would make it to the end, I would rescue Menien, and I would close this damn Gate. Martin would be saved, he would relight the Dragonfires, and the invasion would end. No more burning, no more weeping, no more death. The journey, however, only grew more arduous from there on, with the scraggly vines that lined the trail coming to life to swipe at me. I grew to be an expert at dodging out of their way, but even still, I was covered in scratches when I emerged at the base of the tower.

My success heartened me as I slipped past the patrols up to the door of the tower itself. The grim grey surface appeared to have no handle or latch, but when I pushed on it, it gave away, and I stumbled inside. The blackness of the interior was cut only by flaming yellow column, shooting straight upward. Two Dremora looked up and rushed toward me, but I cloaked myself in shadow as they sprung forward. Rolling out of the way, I watched as the one's blade buried into the other, and then I took out the survivor with a single blow to the skull. And then I made my way through the tower, completely invisible.

There was an odd sort of symmetry to it, I discovered as I wandered the gory halls. If there was a hallway leading up, there was another leading down. If there was a door leading into a chamber, there was an identical one beside it. It seemed wasteful, unnecessary, but who was I to question the logic of the Daedra. But when the symmetry was interrupted, I knew I was on to something.

Two doors were positioned in a corner, turned aside from each other. I pushed on the one that should have continued leading me upwards, but it refused to budge. I stared at it, leaning up against the column behind, only to have something _squish_. I turned in horror to see a fresh, headless corpse nailed to it. I was promptly sick, images of Bellamont's lair rising from my memory. Standing, I pushed against the other door, determined to get out of that room as quickly as possible. Lesson learned: don't touch the walls.

But that proved to be futile, as I emerged onto narrow walkway out on the plane of Oblivion itself, far above the ground, leading to another tower. I instantly grew dizzy, feeling myself sway from side to side. _Don't look down, Lily. Don't look down. _But I couldn't help but do so as I crept along, struggling to keep my balance. I could see the black pillars of other, smaller towers, the orange glow of the lava, and in the distance, a flash of bright yellow that I knew was the Gate. Had the wind always been this bad? It seemed to attempt to knock me over the side with every gust. _I'm not going to die here, like this. I'm not going to die._ Somehow, I made it to the other side, and miraculously, the door caved inward when I shoved it.

And I came face to face with a very surprised-looking Dremora. I was visible again, and for a moment, we simply stared at each other. Then he spoke. "You should not be here, mortal!" he said, in a voice that was indescribable, expect perhaps as an unholy marriage between a grating sound and a shriek. I resisted the urge to clap my hands against the sides of my head. That was no voice meant for mortal ears. But I began to laugh, a hysterical sound that bubbled up out of nowhere. Truer words had never been spoke. The Dremora seemed puzzled. "Your blood is forfeit," he continued, but the words were delivered in a goading manner, as though attempting simply to get a rise out of me. "Your flesh is mine!" His weapon appeared in his hand, but I was already in motion, leaping past him and opening up a deep gash in his side. He gave a hiss of pain, but when he turned to strike at me, he lost his balance and hurtled over the edge of the ramp we were balanced on. There was a thumping crash, along with a wet, squelching sound. After a moment of silence, I crept forward to peer over the edge, then quickly averted my eyes, shuddering. Then I heard the shout.

"Over here! Quickly!" My head nearly spun as I glanced in all directions, not seeing the source of the noise. "In the cage! Up here! Hurry!" I dashed upward, and there he was, a shaking, bloody man in a cage suspended above the open center of the tower.

"Menien?" I asked. He frowned impatiently.

"Yes, yes, there's no time for that! You've got to get to the top of the large tower, you hear me? The Sigil Keep. That's what they call it. The Sigil stone, that's what keeps the Gate open. You have to remove it. Hurry! You have to get the key. The Keeper has the key!"

"Him?" I pointed downward. "All right, just hang tight for a moment. I'll find a way to get you out of here." I began investigating the series of levers along the wall.

"_No!_" he howled. I froze in surprise. "There's no _time_, for that, didn't you hear me? _Go! _Get that Gate closed! Haven't you listened to a word I've said?"

"I'm not just going to _leave _you here," I began to object, but he cut me off.

"You stupid girl, there's half a _city _down there at the bottom of the mountain that'll die if that Gate isn't closed! _GO!_" His voice was ragged, and I began to back away, biting down on the inside of my lip.

"I'll come back for you," I vowed. He gave a hoarse laugh.

"That's the least of your worries. Now, go! Get out of here!" I rushed down to the bottom of the tower, where I found the key in the remains of the Keeper, trying not to vomit in the process. I was out of breath when I reached the door to the walkway, but I made it back across unscathed. Miraculously, the door opened smoothly, and I continued up the tower. The layout was changing; the symmetry forgotten, I was making my way through a series of chambers leading in and out of the main room, the one with the column of flame. And then, I was scrambling up over grey volcanic rock, into a chamber with two enormous sheets of red stretching upward. The humming sound that had been following me all along was louder than ever, and it was now accompanied by a heated hiss.

Trekking across the chamber, I quickly discovered that the only way up was to climb up the red. But as soon as I placed a foot on it, I shrank back in horror. _Whatever_ it was—skin, muscle, or sinew—it was definitely organic. For the third time in the past hour, I felt myself about to be sick. But I had no choice. I had to get to the stone. Taking a deep breath, I charged upward, trying very hard to ignore the _slipperiness_, and the way it stretched and gave beneath my feet. At the top, a dark stone rested in the middle of the flame. But how to get to it? The edge of the upper platform was rounded, extending slightly toward the roaring column of flame, but there was still a significant gap. And furthermore, how was I actually supposed to retrieve it? Grab it with my bare hands? I glanced down at my gloves. My armor was assassin's armor. It was made to fortify stealth, not to actually withstand direct combat. It offered minimal protection at best, against weaponry or against flame. The heat was far too intense, I'd be horribly burned…

But it would be nothing compared to the charred corpses scattered from here to Tamriel. And nothing would have happened to them if it hadn't been for me. Taking a deep breath, I leaned across the gap and plunged my hands into the flame.

For a moment, I was frozen in terror, petrified by the unworldly screaming. Then it dawned on me that it was my own. The screams died in gurgles as I stumbled backward. I had snatched the stone free in a split-second, but agony was searing through my hands just the same. I struggled to break through the fog of pain, but then things started happening all too fast. The flames column suddenly exploded, the platform I had been balanced on moments before breaking free and crashing downward. The entire tower began shaking, and the sounds of shrieking metal and explosions were echoing in all directions. A roaring wind whipped past me as I finally understood what was happening.

If the portal I had entered through was a gate, this tower was the hinge, the sigil stone the pin. And with the pin removed, the entire thing was collapsing. I think I tried to stumble for the ramp downward, but another explosion knocked me off my feet. And then I realized it was too late. Oh, I had been so stupid. What had I expected, that I could waltz back out through the Gate after closing it? That I could carry out a grown man in the process? Of course I'd die here. Of course Menien would die here, too. Only he'd known it, not fooled in the slightest by my ignorant optimism.

I curled into a ball, the pain in my damaged hands meaning nothing anymore. Think of what my death was saving. Think of Enilroth, with his apprenticeship and get-rich-quick schemes. Think of my fragile little family, coming together amidst the ashes of my old one. Think of the heir. Think of his father's last words.

I'd been hidden from destiny's hounds, that was for certain. I'd walked a shadowed path. But I'd kept the Amulet safe. I'd gotten it to Jauffre. I'd found the heir. He'd be all right. When Jauffre didn't hear from me, he'd send someone else to retrieve him. Savlian Matius was a good man; he'd keep him safe until then. And the jaws of Oblivion…well, they were about to close. My work was done.

A sudden feeling of weightlessness struck me as I shot up into the air. Or maybe the tower collapsed from underneath me. I opened my eyes one last time to a searing, blinding whiteness, and then I lost consciousness.

* * *

I was lying on my back, surrounded by merciful darkness. But for some reason, I could feel a wetness on my face. I frowned. That didn't make any sense. There was no water in Oblivion. I'd been trapped there, I'd died there. Had I ended up in Aetherius after all? Could the Gods be so merciful? Or was it a Daedric trick, taunting me with the memory of something I'd never see again?

Half-afraid of what I might see, I dared to crack open my eyes. There was a pale grey surface hovering over me, and the moisture dripping from it…it was rain! And there were the walls of Kvatch! Only there were no flames, no heat, no red. I began to laugh, laughing as though I'd never stop. It was morning, it was raining, I was back in Mundus and I was alive. Alive! The Gate was closed. Kvatch was saved.


	36. Chapter 33: Purified

Chapter 33: Purified

My laughter finally died, and I attempted to sit up. That was when the pain struck. Crying out, I collapsed back down, gritting my teeth. When it finally faded, I gingerly sat up and looked at my hands. It appeared as though the seams of my gloves had disintegrated, leaving the leather to curl away, stiff and brittle. And then I caught a glimpse of the blistered flesh underneath.

I had to look away. I had to look away before I passed out, as my stomach dropped and my head began to swim. The sight of my blood had always been distressing for me, but this was something else. This was much worse.

When my vision cleared, I managed to roll to my feet, standing up slowly, painfully. My body felt battered, as though I'd rolled over a cliff, hitting every rock on the way down. But perhaps that's what being forcibly expelled from Oblivion will do to a person. That reminded me of something—or rather, someone. "Menien?" I called out. There was no reply, except for the pounding rain. "Menien?" I tried again, wandering around the smoking remains of the Gate, now just a broken pile rocks. I had emerged lying in front of it, but there was no one else in the vicinity. Had I only been transported back because I had been the one to close the Gate? Or did Oblivion simply not give up its dead? It had to be the latter, I thought miserably, as the only bodies in sight had been there when I'd gone in; there was no sign of the Kvatch guards who'd fallen on the bridge.

But I had to report back to Savlian Matius. It worried me that the surviving members of the guard hadn't been right there, charging into the city once the Gate had closed. The thought occurred to me that perhaps a greater force of daedra had come out after I had gone in, and they were all dead. But as I neared the barricade, I caught sight through the rain of several white-clad figures standing at attention, perfectly still. "Halt! Who goes there?" a shrill voice demanded, and despite the pain and fear, I felt my face cave into a smile. Savlian Matius had survived.

"It's me," I called, as it occurred to me that they didn't know who "me" was. I hadn't given a name. "It's done. The Gate is closed." And then the raucous shouts burst out from the group. Victory cheers and praise to the Divines cut through the damp air as I approached, drifting through the blocks of the barricade.

"I knew you could do it!" Matius appeared, grinning so widely his face looked as though it would split in two. "Somehow I knew it." His aura of glee dissipated as his tone returned to all-business, but the maniacal gleam remained in his eyes. "This is our chance to launch a counterattack. We've got to move quickly, though, before they have a chance to barricade the city gate." He paused. "Are you able to come with us?" He moved closer, lowering his voice. "To be frank, I need you. You've got far more combat experience than these men. The officers lead the charges; most of the survivors are new recruits."

"Of course. As I said, it is absolutely imperative that I get to Martin." I glanced down briefly at my hands. "But first, I'm going to need to take care this. I don't think I can hold a weapon." He followed the direction of my gaze.

"By the Nine, what did you _do_?" His voice was incredulous as he blanched at the grisly sight.

"Grabbed a Sigil Stone." I grimaced as I attempted - and failed - to wriggle my fingers.

"A what?" He shook his head, not bothering to wait for a reply. "Rilian, get over here!" he shouted. "Rilian's had Restoration training. He's been patching up the wounded," he explained as one of the guards jogged over.

"Yes, Captain?" he asked wearily. Matius gestured at my hands.

"I need you to do something about this. We've got to get into the city, and if she can't fight, we'll essentially be going in there crippled." His words were unnerving enough so as to be more distressing than the pain. It made me nervous hearing myself referred to as a seasoned warrior. I had been trained to kill quickly before I was seen, not to engage daedric creatures in full-on battle. _Killing_ and _fighting_ were two very different things.

But the new arrival had fixed his gaze on me. "Sit down. I'll see what I can do." I sank down into the sludge of damp ash that coated the ground, and Rilian knelt beside me. "Let me see your hands." I held them out, daring to look—_really look_—at them for the first time, but he interrupted me. "No, no. Don't look at them. Look up at Captain Matius." I did as instructed, noting how intently the man was staring, as if willing the process to go faster. "Hmm. I'm going to have to cut away what's left of your gloves. Probably some of your sleeves, too." I sighed.

"Go ahead." The armor, crafted as a single suit, would probably be irreparable, but the Master of the Leyawiin Sanctuary would be able to craft a new set. Eventually. I felt pressure, and tried not to wince as it quickly turned to pain.

"Easy does it. Talk to Captain Matius. Tell him what happened." Clever, attempting to distract me. How was this man _not _a healer?

"I grabbed onto a Sigil Stone," I repeated. "The Gates that showed up here are portals, and the Sigil Tower is the mechanism holding it into place." I briefly recounted the incident, describing the layout of the tower and the role of the Stone.

"All right," Rilian remarked once I had finished. "Now, I want you to keep your eyes on Captain Matius. Tell me what you feel."

"Pain." I gritted my teeth as it flared through my forearms. "_Pain!_" Oh Gods, my hands felt as though they were being flayed. A red haze formed before my vision, but it cleared as I realized tears were dripping from my scrunched-shut eyes. I opened them to see Rilian frowning at me.

"What?" I struggled to keep the note of fear out of my tone. He pursed his lips

"Where did you last feel the pain? Be specific," he asked somewhat slowly, drawing the question out.

"My hands." My stomach clenched, my hands still feeling as though they were engulfed in flame.

"You didn't feel anything just now?"

"…no?" My voice was tiny as my heart began racing. I tried to look down, but Rilian blocked my gaze with his hands.

"Don't." He glanced up at Matius. "Where's Oleta?" The Captain's frown grew even deeper.

"Last I saw of her, she was in that group the priest was taking to the Chapel." He nodded briefly at me, acknowledging my mission, but it was currently the furthest thing from my mind.

"Who's Oleta?" Why did my voice sound so _small? _Rilian turned to me with a sigh.

"All right. Here's the situation. From what you've described, you fared pretty well, but there's still significant damage. I'll be honest, your hands are badly burned, in particular your fingers, where your gloves had split open." He paused. "When I touched your fingers, you didn't feel anything." His face had an odd twist to it, and he wasn't meeting my eyes. "That's…not a good sign."

I could feel my heart rate accelerating, faster and more fiercely than it ever had, even when the Glenmoril witch's potion had sent life coursing back through my veins. "Okay," I said slowly, trying to maintain an illusion of calm. "What exactly does that _mean_?"

He sighed. "Well, the best Restoration expert in the province is just beyond those walls." He nodded toward the smoldering remains of the city. "If she's alive, she could heal this right up. You'd regain full functionality." He _talked _like healer, his speech full of insider terms and euphemisms and forced optimism. But the pain and the horror of the past several hours were beginning to take their toll. I was exhausted, and my patience was wearing thin.

"_What does that mean?_" Several of the soldiers glanced in our direction as my voice rose, nearly matching Matius' in pitch.

"Easy, easy now!" He frowned. "It means I don't have the skill or the power to heal this. I do have some healing potions I can douse them with, though. That will seal them and keep the flesh from taking further damage, and hopefully do something about the pain. If you can get through this battle and we find Oleta alive, she'll take care of it for you. Otherwise, you'll need to find another healer as fast as possible, and hope it's one who's damn skilled. Or they will be crippled, and if infection sets in, you could lose them."

"Did you hear me?" he added when I didn't respond. Of course I'd heard him. How could I not? The possibility of becoming disfigured was staring me straight in the face. It was cruel, and horribly, devastatingly unfair. But it was the price, I thought faintly. I just had to keep telling myself that. I took a deep, shaky breath.

"Okay," I said. "Do it." He rummaged through the satchel at his side and produced several bottles.

"Brace yourself," he warned me, uncorking one of them. And then the pain was roaring through me, fierce as Sigil fires, and I blacked out.

When I came to, I had slumped over on the ground, with both Matius and Rilian peering down at me. "You're awake. Good. Can you sit up? Easy now." And Rilian reached down to help pull me into a sitting position. I glanced down at my hands, which were now covered with heavy leather gauntlets. "I healed them as best as I could and bandaged them. The gauntlets are courtesy of Vonius. He said you saved his life, and besides, he's in no shape to fight." Rilian sighed, and I nodded groggily.

"Drink this." He offered a bottle, and I glanced at him questioningly. "Stamina potion. You look like you're about to keel over." I reached out with a trembling hand, tentatively curling my fingers around its neck. To my utter relief, they obeyed—albeit clumsily. The pain was still there, pulsing through them, but they were working. After a few minutes, the potion began to take effect, and I could feel the fog over my body and brain dissipating.

"Can you hold your sword?" Matius asked as I stood. In response, I drew it, but nearly dropped it as the pain flared up.

"Yes." I took a deep breath, or at least as deep as I could manage without falling into a coughing fit.

"Are you sure?" Matius frowned. "If it hurts now, it'll only be worse when it meets resistance."

"I can do it," I insisted. I'd walked through Oblivion itself and survived. I could cut my way through a few deadra, as long as the ground of Mundus was beneath my feet and that beautiful rainy sky above.

"Good." He didn't bother disguising his relief as he turned to face the remainder of the Guard. "Men!" he shouted. "The Gate is closed, and now we retake our city! For Kvatch!" And then he charged toward the gates as the soldiers echoed his battle cry and surged after him.

It quickly became apparent that the Kvatch Guard had been incredibly well-trained. Despite their inexperience, they moved like a well-oiled machine, neatly splitting apart and drawing open the gates and then pouring through. I followed, my body protesting as I broke into a run, but obeying nonetheless.

Inside the gates, the daedra guarding the entrance appeared to have been taken by surprise. The soldiers moved in teams, groups of three taking down a pair of charging clanfear, with the rest slicing through the surprised scamps. The front square was filled with dead or dying daedra within minutes, and Matius appeared once again wearing that maniacal grin.

"We wiped the bastards out!" he chortled. I paused, panting, not sure how he could be so excited when the scene around us had been drawn from a nightmare. Burnt shells of crumbling buildings were still in flames, bodies were scattered in all directions, and with a jolt in my stomach, I realized the enormous Chapel steeple had fallen, blocking the way into the city. "Come on. We've got to get those civilians out of the Chapel," he called. And we hurried over to the set of side doors that was still accessible.

Matius and an Altmer guard grabbed onto one of the doors, grunting as they pried it open. Cries of surprise rang out, and a voice—a distinctly mortal voice—shouted for them to freeze. I let go of the breath I didn't know I was holding. _Someone—_multiple someones by the sound of it—in there had managed to survive, and that could only be a good sign. "Matius? Thank the Nine," someone breathed, and the rest of us quickly filed through, stepping carefully over the rubble blocking the steps.

"Report, soldier," Matius was saying as the door slammed shut behind the last of us, sealing us into semi-darkness. Glancing up, though, I could still see the sky where the steeple had fallen, although there was minimal debris scattered there in the vestibule. That likely meant any casualties had been few.

"We're all that's left, sir," a young female voice was saying. "Berich Inian, myself, and these civilians." I could see them there, a small group huddling in the darkness up near the altar, their whispers and weeping just barely audible.

"That's it?" Matius suddenly sounded worried. "There's no one else?"

"There were others, but they refused to stay put." I saw the woman briefly bow her head. "We tried to stop them, but they charged out into the streets. I guess they didn't make it."

Matius sighed wearily. "Very well," he said. "The area just outside the Chapel is clear. I want you to escort these citizens to safety. There's an encampment just down at the base of the mountain."

"But _sir!_" She was suddenly indignant. "I want to help fight!"

Matius let out a mirthless laugh. "Oh, you will," he assured her. "Once you've gotten them to safety, get back up here immediately. We'll need every blade available. Trust me, there'll be plenty of fighting to go around."

"Yes, sir," she relented, although she hardly sounded pleased. "Civilians!" she called, turning the group at the altar. "It's time to move out. Let's go!" There was a murmuring among them, and then they began to file out of the Chapel in little clusters of two or three.

I found my gaze drawn to them, trying to somehow deduce which of them was the priest—assuming that he hadn't been one of those who had left. But then Matius was in front of me, blocking my view, and he was speaking. "I…I actually can't believe it," he admitted. "I didn't think this would work—or even that it _could _work." I understood what he meant, but before I could open my mouth to speak, he was already voicing my concerns. "We may still have a fighting chance, but what we've seen so far is likely nothing compared to what's coming. It was…well, it was almost _easy_ to get in here, which likely means it's about to get _a lot _harder." I nodded in agreement.

"It seems like that's their strategy. They keep it simple at first, but the closer you get to what they're protecting, their defenses get much heavier," I suggested, thinking of how each unit I encountered climbing the Sigil Tower seemed to be more deadly than the last. Most of them I hadn't actually engaged in combat, as I had been invisible for most of the climb, but scamps had clustered the bottom levels, with Dremora units gradually taking over the higher up I had gotten. Matius frowned.

"That's what I was afraid of." He shook his head with a nervous laugh, but regained his composure almost instantly. "All right, soldiers!" he called out. "Let's move out!" And we poured out the opposite set of doors—straight into a bloodbath.

I watched a daedroth nearly tear a man in half, and was forced to swiftly pivot out of the way to avoid a charging clanfear. A swarm of Dremora mages surrounded a cluster of soldiers, and bursts of light and shrieks of pain rose up. Throat tightening, I tried to rush to their aid, but found my path blocked by a scamp. I cut it down, one swift slash from neck to hip, but just as Matius had warned, the impact of the blow jarred through my sword, sending white-hot needles of pain through my damaged hand. A cry of pain escaped, but I clenched my jaw and managed to hold on.

The soldiers had fallen by the time I reached them, and the mages were scattering, but one of them zoned in on me. I quickly dropped, rolling out of the way just in time to avoid a burst of lightning. It adjusted its aim, but I was already up and had run it through.

I shook my head, trying to clear the daze of pain, but then I noticed Matius frantically waving his arms above his head. "This is no good," he gasped as I reached him. "The gates are locked, and the only mechanism for raising them is inside the gatehouse. And the only way to get into the gatehouse now is through the passage at the North Guardhouse—which is always locked." He paused for a moment to take down a scamp. "I need you to hurry back to the Chapel and find Berich Inain. He should have the guardhouse key. Find it and get the gate open!" He dashed off toward another swarm of daedra, and I turned and fled toward the Chapel.

An older man nursing a shoulder wound leapt up, startled, when I burst through the door. "I need the Guardhouse key," I gasped out. He frowned.

"Why?" he asked warily.

"To get into the castle. Do you have it? I demanded. His face suddenly cleared.

"Of course! They closed the gate before we were forced in here. I'm afraid you're in for a tough time, though." His frown had returned. "The city's in bad shape, and it'll be difficult to make it to the guardhouse by yourself. I'd better go with you." Eyeing his shoulder, I began to protest, but we both grabbed for our weapons when the opposite doors suddenly flew open. We each breathed a sigh of relief, though, when we saw the heavily-armed Legion troops on the other side.

"We saw the smoke from the road," one of them announced. "What can we do?" Inian was already in motion.

"Follow us!" I called over my shoulder as I ran after him. We dashed down the stairs, and Inian began to unlock the Undercroft. "This is a shortcut," he explained, as we emerged into the ambush awaiting us.

Scamps and Dremora appeared from behind the pillars, but those same pillars served as cover for us as well. One of the Legion soldiers fell, the others responding with cries of outrage, but it only seemed to fuel their ferocity. Regardless, we managed to cut our way through, a Legion soldier shooting down the last scamp as we scrambled up the stairs that would let us out into the streets.

Hordes of daedric creatures glanced our way as we emerged. As if an unspoken command had spread through their ranks, they began to assemble, slowly creeping toward us. Matius and the others were nowhere to be seen, but we could hear the sounds of battle echoing in the distance. Inian suddenly grabbed my arm. "Listen," he commanded hoarsely. "If…If I don't survive this, take the key. You have to get to the tower at the north end of the city. Understand?" I nodded frantically, and then the carnage began.

Perhaps our ragtag little band was somehow given over to a pack mentality as well, for we all instinctively sprung in different directions as the daedra charged. The divide-and-conquer strategy worked two ways, and we managed to draw them off in different directions, narrowly avoiding being backed into a corner and picked off one by one as their entire force fell on us.

And I found myself sprinting through the streets of Kvatch, twisting and leaping out of the way of the magical attacks and physical blows flying at me from all directions. Run. Jump. Duck! Slash. Swipe. Stab. Fight through the pain. Another breath, now use it to fight for the next. Evade. There was no taking these creatures head on, not in these numbers. My strategy was the same it had always been, and it was simple. Evade, evade, evade. Had I not been an assassin, I would not have survived the battle.

One of the Legion archers and I formed an unspoken partnership as we moved through the streets, continuously swapping the roles of drawing the attacks and finishing the monsters off. Buildings in various states of ruin appeared and disappeared along the edges of our fields of vision as the fight was carried along. At one point, I briefly recognized the circular formation as the location of what had been the arena. We had made it to the end of the next street before I realized he wasn't with me anymore.

I pressed on, but the attacks were becoming sparser and less frequent. In fact, I noticed as I paused, it was quiet. Too quiet. I picked up my pace, but then I tripped and sprawled over something in the road. I gasped as my elbows cracked against the paving stones, the layers of ash and leather not enough to muffle the impact. Peeling myself up off the street, I caught a glimpse of something white.

Inian. He lay unmoving as blood leaked from his mouth, glassy eyes staring up at the sky. _Arkay, have mercy. _I reached out, my clumsy fingers closing his eyes. The key, I assumed, was the iron one dangling from his belt. I tried to retrieve it, but my fingers didn't have the mobility. I muttered a curse, but I was startled to my feet by the sound of running footsteps.

Two Legion soldiers clanked into view, and I breathed a sigh of relief. "We're all that's left?" one of them asked. I numbly nodded.

"We need to get into the North Guardhouse." My voice sounded so weak, giving out commands to the Legion. "The Count's trapped in the castle, but the gate's closed." They nodded.

"What can we do?" the one who had spoken asked.

"Just come with me. There's a tunnel. But first, one of you is going to need to get the key." I nodded toward it. "I can't." The silent one moved forward and quickly unhooked it, then followed me a street over to the tower.

The trapdoor was quickly discovered behind a pile of crates, but as soon as we descended, all three of us began coughing as a thick black smoke invaded our lungs. I frowned as we passed a pile of burning rubble. Had the enemy found all the city's secret nooks and crannies? Despite the close heat, the air felt wrong, somehow—dry, but a little too sharp, almost not warm enough. "ATRONACH!"

The silent soldier's warning shout nearly startled the wits out of me, but then I saw it too. The elemental creature lumbered out of the gloom, and all three of us were forced to duck as a wave of frost magic washed toward us.

"Go!" the first one shouted as the atronach stomped forward and swung an icy arm. "We'll hold it off!" I nodded, sprinting toward the exit. The stone stairs were just barely visible, but I scrambled up and emerged between the gates. Shouts broke out from left, Matius' force cheering me on as I raced toward the mechanism on the other side. I dashed up the steps, only to freeze as I realized my predicament.

The gates were operated by an enormous iron wheel—a wheel that probably took two guards to operate. Only I was expected to do it by myself. The Legion soldiers hadn't emerged from the smoking trapdoor, and it was likely that they weren't going to. A creature of that size needed a wide berth, and they were stuck in a narrow tunnel.

I gripped the wheel, straining and growling as I attempted to turn it. Pain ignited in my hands, and I didn't even bother to attempt to stifle my howls. My feet came off the ground as I forced every last ounce of my weight down on it, begging it, _willing it_ to turn as my hands screamed for relief, holes appearing in my vision. Something clanked, and then it gave away. There was a whirring sound as the counterweights activated, and I dropped to the ground, heaving with exhaustion as the gates rattled upward. I rolled over in time to see Matius' force charge through—along with a petite older Redguard woman.

I blinked, wondering if the pain was causing me to hallucinate, but then she flung out an arm, and the scamp rushing toward her screeched, disappearing in a puff of ash. Impressive—and a little terrifying. A civilian mage, no doubt, had decided to join in the fighting.

As I pulled myself to my feet, I saw one the Legion soldiers - the silent one - emerging from the trapdoor. As we rushed toward the courtyard, I caught his eye, and he slightly shook his head. So his companion hadn't made it.

The courtyard was littered with the corpses of daedra as we hurried through it, but several bodies, I noted, wore white Kvatch cuirasses. There was a battle going on as we entered the castle's main hall, but once we took down the Dremora that greeted us, there was the sound of weapons being sheathed.

Matius was bleeding, but he once again wore that maniacal smirk. "All right, soldiers. This is it." He caught sight of us, and quickly waved us over. "We'll hold this area. You two, and Merandil. Head to the back of the castle and find the Count. Don't even think of coming back here without him!"

"Yes sir!" The Altmer from earlier spoke for the three of us, and we headed off up the stairs. The castle was in a complete state of destruction, and the Legion soldier quietly remarked that the Count was probably already dead. Merandil, however, retorted that there was still a chance, but I secretly agreed with our other companion. We fought together surprisingly well, our styles of fighting balancing each other nicely as we moved through what remained of the castle. Finally, we reached one final door. "He'd be in here." Merandil pursed his lips. "This is it."

He smashed the door with a booted foot, and it burst inward, the doorframe shattered. He got an arrow into the Dremora before a jet of flame threw him up against the wall with a sickening crunch, accompanied by the odor of burnt flesh. A glowing purple portal appeared, and the Legion soldier screamed as a scamp emerged and fell on him. I rolled behind an overturned table, freeing the Blade of Woe and hurling it at the Dremora. There was a gurgling sound, and I peered out to see it sink to the ground, an ebony hilt protruding from its neck.

The summoned scamp disappeared, and the soldier collapsed into my arms. The scamp's claws had breached a chink in his armor, and my stomach turned over as I saw what had to be his intestines spilling out. He was hyperventilating, his eyes wide with fright, and I suddenly noticed just how _young _he was. "Please," he begged. "Make it _stop_." And then it did.

Gently, I allowed his body to sag to the floor, sliding his eyes shut. And then I shakily made my way further into the chamber, bending to retrieve the Blade of Woe in the process. But both of my companions had died for nothing, it would seem, because the Count lay face-down in pool of blood.

The blood was congealed, indicating he had been dead for a while. But I turned him over and checked for a pulse anyway. His eyes were already closed. How long had he suffered before the end? Kneeling beside him, I sent a small prayer to Arkay, and crossed his hands over his chest, the way I'd seen priests do. I caught sight of the glint of gold on his hand, a thick ring bearing the outline of a wolf's head—the symbol of Kvatch. My fingers protested, but luckily, his hands were small, and I managed to wriggle it off. I had a feeling Matius would want some proof we had actually found him. "I'm sorry," I whispered. "But at least your city is saved. I guess in the end, that's what you would have wanted." And then I stood, and made my way back to the main hall.

Matius' face twisted into a scowl as I approached. "Where is the Count?" he demanded. "Why is he not with you?" I held out the ring, and his face sagged as he saw what I held.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "He didn't make it." Slowly, he reached out and took the ring, briefly closing his eyes as his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"We were too late." He met my gaze, and I nodded in affirmation. "At least this is safe." He held up the fist the ring was gripped in. "Thank you. I will keep this safe for the time that a new Count is crowned. I truly appreciate you risking your own life to help us. Kvatch was rebuilt from ruins once before, and she'll do it again."

"Captain?" I asked as he bowed his head. "What of the survivors we rescued from the Chapel? I still need to find Martin." He glanced up, his eyes momentarily brightening.

"Oh, Martin. Yes, he was in that group. They'll be down at the encampment." And I breathed a deep sigh of relief. The heir lived. _Thank you. _It wasn't an exact prayer, but I was sure the Divines would get my meaning. "Speaking of which…" He dropped his gaze and I suddenly remembered something that had been spoken of earlier.

"You…you had mentioned a Restoration expert? Did she…" I let my question trail off, suddenly feeling very selfish yet scarcely daring to hope.

"Yes, Oleta. She survived." He gave a brief smile. "I sent her and the others back to camp. Tierra was hurt pretty bad, and I thought it was best to just get them out of here." Something clicked in my head.

"Wait…that wasn't…" The question was too ludicrous to voice out loud, but Matius burst into laughter.

"Yes, the little woman blasting daedra left and right? That was her." He laughed again. "And on top of it all, she's a priestess of Akatosh. Can you believe that?" I couldn't, and he was once again victim to laughter. "Before you go, however," he added once he had calmed down. "I want you to have this." And he began fussing with the straps of his cuirass, and as I stood there watching, he wriggled completely out of it.

"Should fit you," he said with a small, self-deprecating chuckle as he held it up against my shoulders.

"I…I don't think I can accept this," I began cautiously, but he simply draped it over my shoulder.

"I have no use for it. I'm tired of fighting," he admitted with a sigh. "Besides, I have a feeling it may serve you well in days to come."

"Thank you, Captain. It was an honor to fight alongside you." And then there was really nothing more to be said.

* * *

I caught up with Oleta and the others at the entrance to the camp. "Excuse me?" I remembered what Matius had said about her being a priestess. "Um…Sister Oleta?" She turned to face me, smoothing back a strand of graying hair.

"Ah, yes. You're the woman who went into the Gate. Savlian told me all about you. You have Kvatch's eternal thanks—and mine as well." I shifted uncomfortably, but she was still speaking. "Now. I understand you need me to take a look at your hands?" I nodded helplessly, and she gave a small smile. "Step over here, child. Let me take a look."

She let out a small hiss as she undid the last of the wrappings. "Goodness gracious, child. What did you _do_?"

"I grabbed a Sigil Stone," I muttered. Somehow, the story sounded more and more ridiculous each time I told it. She sighed.

"I see there's already been some healing done," she remarked, inspecting them.

"One of the guards had some healing potions." I winced as she probed at the damaged flesh.

"I see…" There were several moments of silence until she spoke again. "All right, I'll tell you what I'm going to do. Healing potions are a crude, quick fix, so first, I'm going to have to undo what's been done." She met my gaze, her wise brown eyes serious. "It will hurt," she said bluntly. I gulped, but I nodded. "And then, I'm going to purify it, to make sure I'm not sealing in any infection. That will also hurt." She gazed at me intently for a second, then gave a soft smile. "And finally, I'll regrow new flesh, and that will finish us up. Are you ready?" I nodded, and she smiled again. "Then let us begin."

She had said it would hurt, but nothing could have prepared me for the pain, even worse than the bite of the Sigil flames. I looked down, and to my horror, my flesh was literally boiling, bubbling as it fell away. I gasped, and suddenly, I was reminded of seeing this sight before—in a vampiric, blood-fueled vision. Images flared up in my mind—the hut...the witch..._you must be purified...how many must die for you?_

"No, child, no no no! Look at me! Look at me." The gentle voice called out to me, and I forced myself to tear my gaze away. Oleta's face swam before my vision. "Easy, child. Keep breathing. Slowly. It'll be over soon."

"I…I saw you blast that scamp," I croaked out. That guard had kept me talking to distract myself from the pain; surely the same would work now? Tears were beginning to spill. "How does a…a Restoration master know how to do th-that?"

"Ah, yes." There was her laughter. "It's embarrassing, really, but my city was on the verge of being annihilated. I thought perhaps my other talents just might be useful for once. I really have no use for Destruction, but the woman who trained me was…" A slight pause. "Well, she was a character, to say the least. She felt that one should not study Restoration without learning Destruction as well. She said it was necessary in order to maintain balance in the universe." A sigh.

"So I learned both. I was just a young, silly girl in the Mages Guild who had a thirst for knowledge and thought she knew more than her instructors. But after my time with her, I could have melted the bones of a Dunmer. The day I completed my training was the same day I joined the Imperial Clergy. Balance is all very well and good, but guilt is another matter entirely. And I wasn't prepared to deal with the latter."

"What did you have to be guilty about?" I asked.

"Oh, nothing." Another pause. "At least, not yet. I was always careful of how I used my powers, but the knowledge of what I _could _do was a bit much for me. I didn't want to ever have the temptation. Power corrupts, child. But as long as you have a duty to _something_, its influence can be weakened." She paused. "How does that feel?"

Throughout the conversation, the pain had been lessoning slightly, but now, as she drew attention to it, I suddenly noticed it had disappeared altogether. Looking down at my hands, I saw that they were once again smooth and whole. No scar or blemish marked them as ever having suffered any damage. I appeared to have a full range of motion and control as I flexed my fingers and balled my hands into fists, and there was not even the slightest hint of pain.

"Like new." I stared at her, eyes wide with amazement. "You're a miracle worker." She laughed.

"Not in the slightest, child." She smiled modestly, but I could see the pride shining in her eyes as I was reminded of my mission.

"Sister Oleta, I was looking for Martin. Captain Matius said he was with the Chapel survivors?"

"Brother Martin?" She stood and pointed toward two figures at the head of the road. "That's him there, in the grey robe." She smiled, but a small furrow had appeared between her eyes.

"Thank you." I stood and took a few steps in the direction she had indicated, but then paused. "Sister? The woman who had trained you…" I hesitated, briefly wondering if I had temporarily gone insane. "What was her name?"

"Oh, her?" Oleta gave a small chuckle. "Her name was Melisande. Quite an odd one, but as I've said, I learned much from her."

"Thank you." Oh, the fates. The cunning hounds of destiny. The twisted road that had led me here. How could I ever again believe in coincidence? But I pushed it from my mind, as I had a final task at hand. A quick thrill of nerves ran through me as I crossed the road, preparing myself to come face-to-face with the last of the Septims.


	37. Chapter 34: Revelations of an Exodus

**A/N: Guys, tomorrow is my last first day of school. Scary, huh? I know I'll eventually go on to a post-grad degree of some sort, but that's just different, you know?  
Anyhow, I wanted to take this opportunity to announce my excessively overambitious goal of finishing this story by the end of the year. We still have a long ways to go, and it probably won't happen, but I only have class two days a week this semester, and my school's in a small town where there's really nothing to do but write. Like I sat down today and banged out this entire chapter. I don't know. We'll see.  
But I've held you up long enough. Here's our next chapter. Enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter 34: Revelations of an Exodus

_Martin_

Somehow, he'd known they were coming for him. The previous week, they'd been in the middle of afternoon prayers when a rock had come crashing through the window above the altar of Mara, putting a fist-sized hole through the Goddess' stained-glass face. He'd dashed out the door to see a crowd of scrappy-looking children running away, but the damage was done. When he'd finally cooled down, Ilav had written down an order for replacement pieces, and then sent Martin down to the Lazy Dog, where a Black Horse Courier could nearly always be found.

The pieces had arrived that afternoon, and just as predicted, Martin had been tasked with fitting them back into the window. He'd been precariously balanced on a ladder, sealing the edge of Mara's face, when the image of the Goddess had begun to glow orange, deep and sinister.

He'd jerked away, balancing precariously for a moment before tipping over backward off the ladder, narrowly missing cracking his head on the edge of a pew. Oleta had rushed over, but he was on his feet in an instant, brushing her aside and running for the foyer. And when he'd shoved open the east doors, his heart had frozen at the sight that awaited him. The sky above was blood red, crackling with energy, the sun completely blotted out. Guards were running to and fro, shouting to each other as they pointed at the sky, unsure of what to do. And then there'd been that _sound_, grating rock accompanied by a flaming hiss. And when the tongues of lightning shot up above the walls and the screams began, his stomach had clenched and he'd _known_—known that Oblivion itself was coming for him.

But he'd recovered quickly. Run out into the streets, calling out to panicked citizens and ushering them into the Chapel, even as the forces of Oblivion poured through the city gates and began cutting down everything in their path. Even as his beloved city—the one he'd spent his entire life in—went up in flames. Even as he watched his friends die. And once inside, he'd gathered everyone up front in the shadows by the altar—ignoring Oleta's whispered questions in regards to Ilav's whereabouts—and prayed. Prayed all through the night and through the next day, even—until the steeple had come crashing down. In the resulting chaos, several terrified citizens had gone running out the doors—only for their screams to reach the survivors' ears. After that, he hadn't bothered to resume his prayers.

Now, he stood at the edge of the camp, staring up the mountain at the plumes of smoke that the rain somehow still hadn't managed to stifle. All that rain—the rain that had come as such a blessed relief—and the fires still burned. He suddenly felt angry at the sun that had dared to make an appearance. How dare it shine as though the world would go on? As if the Gods hadn't forsaken them? He felt his hands curling into fists as he drew in a sharp breath. "Are you Martin?"

He started slightly at being addressed, turning to face the person who had interrupted his reverie. An unfamiliar woman stood there, staring at him with a peculiar, almost tentative expression. "Can I help you with something?" he asked vaguely, hoping she would take the hint and go bother someone else. The woman didn't budge, however, instead crossing her arms over her chest.

"You _are_ Martin, then? The priest?" There was something off about her face, something that bothered him even more than being interrupted. He felt his forehead crease with irritation.

"Yes, I'm a priest," he bit out harshly. "Do you need a priest? I don't think I'll be of much help to you. I'm having…" He faltered as he put into words the thoughts that had been plaguing him for the past two days, thoughts he shouldn't be having. "I'm having a little trouble understanding the Gods right now." He managed to restrain himself before he said something he really regretted. However, the woman's expression didn't change.

"Good," she said briskly. "I'm going to need you to come with me." He stared at her. This was perhaps the worst possible moment for a joke. But she wasn't joking. She was staring at him expectantly, slightly gesturing in the direction of the road. He took a deep breath, wearily rubbing at his smoke-stung eyes.

"Look," he said carefully. "I'm needed here. I can't leave. Look around you. What good is a priest? The city is in ruins, countless are dead and even more still are dying. You can either tell me who you are and what you want, or you can get away from me."

She sighed, stepping closer. "Martin, I…I don't even know how to begin to explain it to you. But on the night the Emperor died, I was told to find his last son. And that search has led me to you." Her familiarity was disturbing—but then the words themselves sunk in.

Despite all the horrors surrounding them, he nearly actually laughed. "Emperor Uriel Septim? You think I'm the emperor's son?" She held his gaze, unblinking, and he instantly sobered. Whatever nightmare this poor woman had endured amongst the flames, it had gotten into her head. He had enough knowledge of both Restoration and Illusion to know most likely nothing would ever get it out. His smirk fading, he spoke more gently this time.

"I'm sorry. You must be mistaken. I am a priest of Akatosh. Remember? You asked me if I was a priest. My father was a farmer." He had expected her to hysterically insist on her story or to perhaps even fly into a rage, but instead, her eyes flickered shut, and when she spoke, it was as though it pained her.

"Martin, I know it doesn't make sense. I know it's not fair to spring it on you like this. But look around you. Look at the devastation, the suffering. Kvatch was not attacked at random. The daedra came here for you."

How dare she. How _dare she?_ To go so far as to even _insinuate _such a thing! But as his anger swelled, he suddenly realized what it was that had been bothering him about her face. Her eyebrows were gone—singed off, judging by the swollen redness of her face. He took in the charred, mangled armor she wore—covered in tears and completely missing the bottoms of its sleeves. And suddenly, as he realized who he was speaking with, the stillest of voices spoke from the depths of his consciousness, quietly telling him that what she said was true.

"I…" He didn't know what to say. How could _anyone _know what to say? Surely he couldn't be the first person to have faced this situation. Could he? "I prayed to Akatosh, all through that terrible night, but no help came. Only more daedra. An entire city destroyed…to get to me? Why?" She simply held his gaze, but her eyes were filled with sorrow.

"Because I'm the Emperor's son." And very slowly, the woman began to nod. It was ridiculous. It was the most farfetched idea anyone could have ever dreamed up. Yet somehow… _I am the Emperor's son. _He said the words to himself, then winced. That only made it seem more ludicrous. He took as deep a breath as he could manage of ash-laden air as he took in the woman before him. Despite the burns and the soot and the ruined armor, she seemed—well, absolutely _ordinary_. It was the reason he had mistaken her for a civilian in the first place. And yet, she had charged through gates of Oblivion itself, all for the sake of a city she had no stake in.

"You destroyed the Oblivion Gate." He spoke his musings out loud. "You helped them drive the daedra back. You gave them hope. Gave _us _hope." It was her turn to look uncomfortable.

"I need you to come with me to Weynon Priory. Jauffre—the Grandmaster of the Blades—wishes to speak with you." She wore a wicked-looking weapon, and clearly wasn't taking no for an answer. A few days ago, he would have looked at this as a kidnapping. But now, he found himself nodding in agreement.

"Very well. I'll come with you to Weynon Priory, and hear what Jauffre has to say." And for a fraction of a second, a hint of victory flashed across her face.

"Follow me." And she turned, heading back through the camp toward the main road. She had a quick stride, and he had to rush to catch up with her.

"Are we leaving _now_?" he asked cautiously. "We'll need provisions of some sort for the journey." She shrugged, barely glancing at him.

"I have some. Either way, we'll be there by morning."

"By _morning_?" he began to ask skeptically, but then he was suddenly eye-to eye with the most monstrous creature he had ever seen in his life.

It was a horse, or at least he thought it was a horse. The tallest one he had ever seen, it was also incredibly _bony_. But the worst part by far was the set of blood-red eyes glowing in its massive head. "What _is_ that thing?" The woman turned to him, seemingly surprised.

"This is Shadowmere." And she actually turned to affectionately scratch the beast's forelock. "She won't hurt you, but I'd stay away from her head just the same." She deftly adjusted the straps of the saddle, then swung astride as though it was the most natural act in the world. Kicking her near foot out of the stirrup, she extended a hand toward him. "Climb up."

He sighed. He'd never been particularly fond of horses, and this one was terrifying even by most standards. But he did as requested, grasping her hand as he put a foot in the stirrup, and allowed her to haul him up. "Hang on." And he was forced to clutch the city's rescuer for dear life as the beast took off at a breakneck speed.

He didn't know how long he was frozen there in terror before the beast began to slow. Relieved, he sat up to take a look at his surroundings, but quickly frowned. He'd heard of Weynon Priory, a small monastery near Chorrol, but they were clearly still in the West Weald. "Why have we stopped?" He murmured the question quietly into her ear. The hairs on the back of his neck were prickling, and he had a distinct feeling that something was wrong. It was a moment before she answered.

"The sky over there. It's too long after sunset for it to be that red." She, too, was whispering, and his stomach turned to ice as a jolt of fear coursed through him.

"By the Nine. Not another Gate?" But she was tugging on the reins, turning the beast off the side of the road.

"I don't know, but we're not going to find out." And she urged the mare on through the woods, mercifully slower this time.

If the road had been a miserable experience, riding through the woods was even worse. Branches slapped at his face, and the beast was constantly lurching from side to side, weaving around rocks and logs and trees. But despite the stabbing panic that came with each swerve, he found his mind beginning to go numb. He hadn't slept in three days, and the exhaustion was beginning to wear on him. The relief that came when the beast stopped again, however, was short-lived when he saw they were still in the middle of the woods.

He groaned inwardly. He was longing for Weynon Priory—surely hot food and soft beds would be awaiting them. "Go ahead and climb down first." He frowned at the woman's command.

"Why?" he asked warily. He was suddenly reminded of the red-robed maniacs, but no—surely she wouldn't risk so much just to lure him out here and kill him. He'd seen the way they'd fought—wildly and without abandon. If she were one of them, she'd have killed him the moment she saw him—and wouldn't have bothered to close the Gate.

"Because you're falling asleep in the saddle." She scrambled down after him. "You need to rest." He couldn't argue with that.

He sat on a fallen log while she tended to her mount, moving over to make room once she finished. "Here. It's stale, but it's better than nothing." She offered him a hunk of bread, which he devoured within minutes. After that, he seemed to remember her offering him a waterskin, but then all went black.

When he awoke, he wasn't sure why his bed was suddenly so hard, why his quarters in the Chapel hall suddenly seemed so open, or why he was so wet. Then, as he realized he was lying on the ground in the dew-dampened grass, the past several days came rushing back. Kvatch. Kvatch had been attacked by daedra. The city had burned, people had died. And a mysterious woman had appeared out of nowhere and saved the city—and then told him he was the Emperor's son.

He sat up apprehensively, pushing aside the heavy black covering that had been draped over him. What madness could have claimed him to have believed her so easily, to have allowed her to bring him all the way out here? Clearly she was unstable. But there she was, saddling her monstrous beast of an animal. Its sinister eyes met his, and he could have sworn it gave him an evil smirk.

She turned to him, smiling a thin, tentative smile. "You're awake. How are you feeling?" He exhaled, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

"Fine," he muttered. He staggered to his feet, his body groaning in protest. His back ached as though his spine had been pounded with a warhammer and his legs had turned to jelly, causing him to stumble when he tried to take a step. He glanced up, half-hoping she hadn't seen that, but she was watching him in a way he didn't like. Almost as if she were carefully analyzing his weakness.

"I thought you might be a little stiff. I take it you don't ride much." Her voice was muffled as she leaned over to check one of the beast's hooves.

"Never," he admitted, folding what he now realized was a voluminous robe. She popped up from underneath the beast, eyes wide.

"Never?" she asked incredulously. It looked as though some of the heat had faded from her face, but her lack of eyebrows was still disconcerting.

"There aren't many settlements in County Kvatch," he explained as he stepped closer. "And most of the ones that do exist aren't particularly devout. I rarely had the need to travel, but even if I did, horses are no good on the terrain."

"Some would be," she insisted. "You just have to have the right type."

"Like that?" He pointed to her beast, and she actually laughed.

"Maybe. It wouldn't be the first time she's climbed mountains." She had mounted, and was offering a hand again. "We need to get moving, though. The sooner we get there the better, and besides, I don't like being out here in the open like this." She didn't have to explain further. He pulled himself up behind the saddle, pain echoing through his entire body.

Although the pain had magnified tenfold since yesterday, the journey itself seemed to go much quicker. The forest looked drastically different in the daylight, but just the same, he had never been so glad to see anything as when the paving stones appeared beneath the beast's hooves. Although that wasn't entirely true, he realized. Nothing could compare to seeing the fires of Oblivion fade from the sky.

That sobering thought distracted him, and he didn't see the sight ahead of him. He did, however, hear the shouting. "Help me! Help!" It was a man's voice, and he looked up to see a wiry, grey-haired figure sprinting toward them. He felt himself nearly hurled to the ground as the beast skittered sideways, throwing its head up, but he managed to cling to the woman as she tightened the reins, slowing it to a stop. Oddly enough, it was at that moment that he realized he still didn't know her name.

"Help. Oh, Nine Divines, please, you've got to come help!" The man frantically skidded to a stop in front of them. Even in his panic, he still eyed the beast warily, Martin noted. But the man's sheer terror made something in his throat tighten. It was a look he had seen far too often the past few days.

"Eronor? What is it?" The woman's tone, which he had grown accustomed to as cool and even, had grown nervous.

"You must help!" the man insisted. "They're killing everyone at Weynon Priory!"

"What?" The woman sprang from the saddle so fast Martin was nearly knocked to the ground. He hurriedly climbed down after her. "Who's 'they?' What's happening?"

The man gasped for breath. "I…I was in the sheepfold when they attacked. I heard the Prior talking to them. They…they looked like travelers. Ordinary. B-but then w-w-weapons appeared in their hands, a-and th-they cut the Prior down!"

"Eronor! Focus. Where is Jauffre?" Martin found himself frowning as she snapped at the shepherd. The man was clearly in shock, and shouting at him probably wasn't helping.

"I-I don't know," Eronor managed. "In the chapel I think. Praying." He had been glancing over his shoulder the entire time, but he suddenly drew in a sharp breath. "You've got to help us!"

Martin followed his gaze up the road to see several figures racing toward them. As they drew closer, he caught sight of their armor and felt the blood drain from his face. Obviously conjured and unmistakable, he had seen it spring up around the red-robed maniacs far too many times in the past several days. And immediately, any remaining doubts he had about Kvatch's hero and her story were washed away. For them to show up at such a remote location this far from the original attack—it could be no coincidence.

He was startled by the harsh rasp as the woman drew her sword. "Stay back!" she yelled over her shoulder before charging up to meet them. Preparing a Conjuration spell, he stepped forward after her.

"You heard what she said," the shepherd said fearfully. Martin nodded, but he broke into a run anyway, drawing his dagger as he summoned the bear. It burst forth with a roar, and promptly clawed one of the assailants nearly in half. The woman had already dispatched the other two, and Martin quickly changed tactics, launching fistfuls of lightening at his own summoned creature. It roared again, this time in pain, but he quickly finished it off. Better to use up the magicka than to lose control and have it attack anyone other than the intended target.

The woman burst through the chapel doors as he closely followed. Before them, an elderly monk was expertly wielding a claymore, taking the head off one of the maniacs. He locked blades with a second, while a third was headed straight for them. It lifted its weapon, only for the woman to lunge forward and pierce its side. As it fell, gurgling, she leapt over its body and quickly helped the monk finish off the other one.

The monk sheathed his weapon, breathing heavily. "Lily, thank the Nine you're all right."

"What happened here?" she demanded. The monk shook his head sadly.

"I was here praying when they attacked. The others…were there more?"

"Eronor escaped, but he said the Prior was dead," she replied softly. "I'm sorry."

The monk's face sagged. "And what of Piner?" he asked. "The brother who greeted you when you first arrived?"

"I have no idea. I didn't see him. Those assassins, though—who are they? They were the same ones who…the Emperor…" Her voice trailed off, but the monk nodded, seeming to understand.

"Yes, the Mythic Dawn. A cult devoted to Mehrunes Dagon. We identified them as the force behind the assassinations years ago, but we haven't had any luck so far in finding them. Well, until now."

"The Amulet." The woman—Lily—suddenly sounded panicked again. "Where's the Amulet?" The monk frowned.

"I hid it in a secure location. I do not believe they would have been able to find it."

"I'll go check on it anyway." Lily turned sharply and dashed out of the chapel, the monk hot on her heels. Once again, Martin had no choice but to follow. They ran across the courtyard into the Priory house, where a bloodied young man clutching his arm awaited them.

"I'm sorry." His eyes were wide as he guiltily glanced away from them, shaking his head.

"Piner! What happened? Are you all right?" The monk was clearly concerned, but the man just shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. The monk drew back.

"Damnit." He raced up the stairs with a speed surprising for his age, Lily following. When he reached the top, however, there was a cry of alarm. "I—I don't believe this." Martin reached the top of the stairs and peered around the open cabinet doors to see a small hidden room. The monk was on his knees, head buried in his hands.

"But you told me it would be safe." Lily's statement was an accusation, and to Martin's surprise, her face was wobbling slightly as though she was about to cry.

"I thought it would be." The monk stood and brushed past Martin out of the room. "Piner?" He leaned over the railing, peering down at the floor below.

"I'm sorry." The bloody man's voice echoed up faintly. "I…I didn't want to tell them." And then a noise similar to a sob. "It's all my fault."

The monk swore under his breath, then turned back to Lily. "It would seem the enemy has defeated us at every turn," he said, voice heavy with defeat.

"Not entirely," she sighed. For the first time, the monk looked at Martin and actually saw him.

"That…isn't…" He leaned in toward Lily conspiratorially while keeping his gaze on Martin, as though he was across the room at a crowded party. And Lily's face filled with triumph.

"Yes. Martin, this is Jauffre, Grandmaster of the Blades. And Jauffre, this is Martin Septim."

Martin Septim. It was strange, hearing his name like that. Martin Septim, of the Dragonborn line. Was that who he was? But the greatest shock was seeing the tears form in Jauffre's eyes.

"My, my. Martin Septim." He smiled. "It has been so long since I last saw you. You don't remember me, of course; you were only a baby at the time. It was I who took you to the Chapel of Akatosh."

"Grandmaster Jauffre." The words felt thick in his throat. "It's an honor." Suddenly, he was plagued by more questions than ever. He'd known he'd been left at the Chapel as a baby, but he had assumed he'd been left by his mother, probably a poor, unmarried girl. But if the Grandmaster of the Blades had left him, did that mean the Emperor had known about him? And suddenly the identity of his mother was being challenged as well.

"No, the honor is mine," the Grandmaster insisted. "I'm only sorry we have to meet under such circumstances."

"Jauffre." Lily suddenly interrupted. "It's clear that Martin isn't safe here. Where can we take him?"

"I had thought of that." Jauffre turned away, crossing the room to begin rummaging through a desk. "Cloud Ruler Temple. It's a stronghold in the Jerall Mountains, just to the north of Bruma. It's traditionally where the Emperor is taken in times of danger, and it's heavily guarded by the Blades. He'll be safe there. But we should leave immediately." He quickly swept several objects into a knapsack, then headed for the stairs.

"Do you have a horse Martin can ride?" Lily asked as they descended. "He's never actually rode before."

"Prior Maborel's." Jauffre's voice had gone distant. Passing through the archway to the stables, Eronor and Piner could be seen huddled over a black-robed figure on the ground. Another casualty of Oblivion's invasion—or rather, Mehrunes Dagon's. "It's the paint one. Excuse me. I must pay my respects."

Jauffre hurried over to the fallen Prior, and Lily nudged his arm. "Come on. I'll show you how to saddle up."

By the time Jauffre headed to the stables, the paint was ready, and when the Grandmaster was finally in the saddle, Martin had managed to ride around the adjoining corral several times without falling or hanging on to the saddle. "Are we ready?" Lily asked as her beast danced beneath her. "I can take the lead."

"Go ahead." Jauffre pointed toward the road. "Take the Orange Road all the way to the end, and turn left on the Silver Road. When we reach Bruma, take the road past the stables. And after that…" He shrugged. "Just keep going up." Lily nodded, and then they were off.

It was a beautiful day, and Martin might have enjoyed the ride were it not for the fact that he was constantly scanning the trees for any flashes of red. As they ascended into the mountains, however, he began to shiver from the cold. The wind was picking up, and he was hunched over in the saddle, trying to brace himself against its bone-biting chill. Bruma was beneath them, and as they rose higher into the Jeralls, he was plagued by the feeling that he was going to slide right off the back of his horse. And then, when he was certain he couldn't ride any further, enormous stone walls loomed up in front of them.

Ahead of him, Lily was dismounting, and he heard Jauffre do the same behind him. He slid off the paint, briefly wondering if the motion would ever appear as natural as Lily made it seem. His stiff legs nearly buckled as they touched the ground, but he was able to grab onto the paint just in time to steady himself. The creature didn't budge, and he grimaced. He might not have liked horses, but he would be eternally grateful to this one. The embarrassment of falling flat on his face in front of the Emperor's bodyguards would have been nearly impossible to live down.

"Who goes there?" a faint voice cried from above. Martin squinted upward, but didn't see anything.

"The Grandmaster," Jauffre bellowed, "escorting Martin Septim." There was silence, and for a few moments, it stretched out uncomfortably long.

"Are they not going to let us in? Just like that?" Lily asked quietly, but then there was a rumbling, and the massive gates began to swing open. Martin felt his stomach turn over. This was it.

A man in Akaviri armor stood at the foot of a set of stone stairs, spanning half the length of the fortress itself. "My lord!" he exclaimed, bowing deeply. "Welcome to Cloud Ruler Temple! We have not had the honor of an Emperor's visit in many years." Martin suddenly realized the man was addressing _him_. The fact that he was Uriel's son had already been firmly established by both Jauffre and Lily, but this was the first time the word _Emperor _had been used.

"Ah. Well." He cleared his throat. "Thank you. The honor is mine." Was that an appropriate response? But the Blade was positively beaming.

"Come," he said, gesturing up the stairs. "Your Blades are waiting to greet you." They began climbing the stairs, and then he was being ushered down between long lines of men and women in the same Akaviri armor, and then he was standing on the steps to the temple itself, looking down over the crowd. It was suddenly very hard to breath. Even as a priest, he'd never been comfortable addressing crowds. Giving the sermons had been Ilav's job.

"Blades!" Jauffre stood beside him, a welcome presence. "Dark times are upon us. The Emperor and his sons were slain on our watch. The Empire is in chaos. But there is yet hope. Here is Martin Septim, true son of Uriel Septim!"

And then a thunderous chorus of voices broke out. "Hail! Hail, Dragonborn! Hail, Martin Septim! Hail!" It was both the most incredible and most terrifying moment of his life. As they proclaimed their devotion, their voices echoing off the mountain, he was humbled—in awe that they could so willingly pledge themselves to a man they had never met. A bastard priest from Kvatch, no less. He swallowed, and willed his knees not to tremble.

"Your Highness," Jauffre continued once the shouts had died down. "The Blades are at your command. You will be safe here until you can take up your throne." And then he stepped down, leaving Martin standing there alone. Every set of eyes in the area zoned in on him, and he realized, with a sinking feeling, that he was expected to make a speech.

He took a deep breath and stared straight ahead, accidently locking eyes with Lily in the process. She'd hung back, and was standing off to the side by the steps. The sunset sky visible through the parapets behind her was a glorious canvas of bright blue, streaked liberally with gold, orange, pink and lavender. But no red. And that thought was just comforting enough to prompt him to begin speaking. "Jauffre. All of you," he began. How _was_ he supposed to address them?

"I know you all…expect me to be Emperor. I'll do my best. But this is all new to me, and I'm not used to giving speeches." Focus on the sky. "But I wanted you to know that I appreciate your welcome here." He met Lily's gaze, and he thought he saw her head dip slightly in a nod of encouragement. "I hope I prove myself worthy of your loyalty in the coming days." The briefest of glances at Lily. "That's it. Thank you." He was met with silence, but he was quickly running out of things to say, and he didn't want the Blades to think their new Emperor had had his brains addled.

"Well, then." Jauffre stepped up next to him once again, clearing his throat. "Thank you, Martin. We'd all beast get back to our duties, eh, Captain?" One of the Blades gave an order, and they all dispersed, their armor-clad feet shuffling across stone as they resumed their posts. Jauffre had begun speaking to the Captain, and Divines be praised, Lily had climbed the rest of the stairs and was heading toward him.

"Not much of a speech, was it?" he asked sheepishly as she approached. She smiled then—the first genuine one he had seen from her.

"You were wonderful. Far better than I would have been." The smallest hint of mischief flickered in her eyes, and he knew she was just trying to make him feel better. Somehow, though, he really didn't mind.

"It didn't seem to bother them, at least." He returned the smile, then sighed. "I don't know, though. The Blades…saluting me...hailing me as Martin Septim…" But she was staring at him with that careful analytic look again. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful," he quickly clarified. "I know I would be dead by now if it weren't for you. Thank you." He sighed again.

"But everyone suddenly expects _me _to know what to do. How to behave. They want an Emperor to tell them what to do, and I haven't the faintest idea." He didn't know why he'd started babbling like this, why he was confiding in a stranger like this. Merely days ago, he would have scorned the very thought. But this unfamiliar world he'd been thrust into was so bizarre and unsettling, and even though he barely knew her, he'd met her in Kvatch. And somehow, she seemed familiar, like the only piece of home he had left.

"The Amulet," she said. When he frowned, she gave another one of those smiles that didn't reach her eyes. "We need to recover the Amulet of Kings," she explained. "That should be the next step."

"Of course," he said, suddenly feeling rather thick. "So we…" He swallowed. "So _I _can take it to the temple and light the dragonfires. And stop the Oblivion invasion."

"And crown you Emperor," she reminded. At that, he actually laughed.

"The Emperor. That's an idea that will take some getting used to." He shook his head. "Hard to believe yesterday I was just a priest. Do you understand what it feels like, to be one person one day and another the next? To have your life suddenly uprooted out from under you?" He realized he was beginning to sound ungrateful again, but before he could apologize, her face grew thoughtful and she began nodding.

"Yes," she said softly. "I do." But before he could press further, Jauffre appeared over her shoulder.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I must speak with Lily." The Blade who had let them in stood beside him. "Martin, Cyrus will escort you inside and see to it that you get a meal." At that, he could feel himself nearly begin drooling. He hadn't had a real meal in at least three days. But as he was led inside, he glanced over his shoulder at Lily—and wondered, not for the first time, what exactly he had followed her into.


	38. Chapter 35: In My Life

**A/N: One of our longer chapters to date, but centered around one of my favorite characters. Enjoy!**

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Chapter 35: In My Life

_Baurus_

Baurus was many things, but a stranger to hardship was not one of them. It had been hard growing up on the Waterfront, raising his sisters and brother after their mother's death. It had been hard being sucked into the criminal underbelly, and harder still crawling out of it. It had been hard earning his place in the Blades, especially given his past and his age. It had been hard finding the Emperor's body, waiting with it in that dank little stone chamber. It had been hard telling Caroline Renault that both her parents had perished in a long-forgotten ruin beneath the city. It had been hard facing the reprimands and the ridicule, being stripped of his rank and turned out of the organization he had come to call his family. But despite it all, the hardest thing in his life he had to endure was watching that girl come walking through the door.

He immediately dropped his gaze, staring into the depths of his ale as he fought the urge to stare at her. He wanted to leap up from his chair, to shake her, to beat her face into a bloody pulp. _Why? _he would scream. _Why did you betray us? How could you leave like that? Disappearing without a trace with the Amulet in hand? He trusted you! How could you dishonor his final request?_ But he sat with his head down, lest the Mythic Dawn agent sitting behind him be alerted to his true purpose—or even to her identity.

Jauffre had told him the time to act had come—and to expect an old friend. The Grandmaster had been the only one not to dismiss his story, or berate him for losing the Amulet. _The Dragonborn see more than lesser men_, had been his only reply upon hearing Baurus' explanation for himself, as he'd stared at him thoughtfully. Baurus also strongly suspected the reason he'd been reassigned as a "scout" instead of turned out of the order entirely was the result of the Grandmaster pulling strings.

He felt her approach, her footsteps lightly thudding on the floorboards despite the hum of the inn. A strange scent also assaulted him—lavender and a trace of something else floral, but overwhelmed by a heavy stench of smoke. He tried not to cough. "Sit down," he murmured, still staring into his ale. "Don't say anything. Just do as I say." The stool next to him creaked as she did as instructed, sending another wave of that smoky floral odor his way. This time he couldn't help but wrinkle his nose.

"Could I have an ale?" she asked Luther in that voice he remembered so well, even after all these years, a soft, tentative murmur. What was she _doing _here? He had expected Arcturus or Belisarius, or perhaps even Caroline, but certainly not _her_. If Jauffre had sent her, had she delivered the Amulet after all? Why now?

"Listen," he said after she had taken a few sips of her drink. "I'm going to get up in a minute and walk out of here. That man in the corner will follow me. You follow him." Her only response was to take another sip of her ale, but he knew she'd heard him. He stood up from the bar and wandered over to the basement door, keeping his gait casual, and slipped inside and down the stairs.

Sure enough, there was the sound of the door being opened followed by footsteps. He turned to see the agent rush down the stairs, summoning that familiar armor. They met in a clash of metal, but the other man was strong, parrying his blow easily. Baurus was forced to leap back, and the man raised his weapon, preparing to strike—only to be knocked off his feet as a wine barrel bounced down the stairs, bowling him over and splintering as it smashed against a pillar.

Fighting against the tide of wine rushing past his boots, Baurus waded over to the fallen agent. He was struggling to stand, but looked directly up at Baurus as his blade lifted. "I do not fear death," he snarled, and then Baurus drove the blade home.

The girl stood at the top of the stairs next to a now-empty rack. Despite his misgivings, he couldn't help but feel a touch of admiration. Clever. "Good work," he acknowledged. "I am glad to see you, by the way. It's only been what…four years?" Even in the dim lighting he saw the look cross her face.

"I deserved that," she said quietly.

"I'll say." He angrily splashed through the wine up the stairs. "Four years, damnit! You took the Amulet and ran! Do you realize how many Imperial agents have been scouring the black markets for it? The Dragonfires have gone out, and now we're under a Nine-cursed invasion from Oblivion itself!" He reached the top of the stairs as she took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Baurus, I know. I know I was wrong to wait so long, and I know everything that's happening is my fault. Trust me, there is nothing you can say to me that I haven't already told myself. But right now, we need to deal with this situation." She pointed down at the fallen agent, and he sighed. She was right. And although his faith in her was minimal at best, Jauffre _had_ sent her. The thought crossed his mind that maybe she was working for the Mythic Dawn, but the way Jauffre had referred to an "old friend…" He decided to trust her for the time being, but keep his guard up.

"I'm sure Jauffre has already told you about the Mythic Dawn." She nodded as he, too, gestured toward the body. "I've been tracking their agents in the Imperial City. I guess they noticed," he added wryly. "Two days ago, I was given permission to move against them. Once you got here, that is. I assume you have news?" She nodded.

"Both good and bad." A long, slow inhale. "The enemy has the Amulet."

"WHAT?"

"No, no, it wasn't my fault!" A small note of panic infiltrated her tone as Baurus advanced toward her, gripping the hilt of his blade. "The Mythic Dawn stole it from Weynon Priory after I delivered it." He frowned. Because she had alerted them to its location? But she was still speaking "The good news is that I found Uriel's heir."

"He lives?" Joy and relief flashed through him, and for a moment, he forgot his suspicions. "Thank Talos!" She was smiling as she nodded.

"At this very moment, Martin is safe at Cloud Ruler Temple, guarded by his Blades."

"Martin Septim." He said the name for the first time. "We will restore him to the throne. But now, we need to decide our next move. Search our friend down there. See if he has anything of note." He wasn't about to both give up the high ground and turn his back to her.

"Here's something," she said a few moments later. "I've never seen anything like this before." Climbing back up the stairs, she offered him a worn, faded book. The cover was adorned with Daedric runes, and although the pages were soaked with wine, it appeared to be filled with cryptic ramblings as he flipped through it.

"Hmm." He paused, musing over its strange contents. "There's a scholar at the Arcane University. Tar-Meena's her name. Supposed to be an expert on Daedric cults. She's probably our best lead at the moment. If you're ready?"

"Lead on," she agreed.

The walk across the City was distinctly uncomfortable. Neither of them  
spoke, and Lily kept her gaze fastened securely downward. Still, he couldn't help but steal glances at her. She had aged drastically in the past several years, her face gaunt and weary as though she were ill. The child he remembered was gone; in her place was a much older woman. In the tunnels, she'd been indignant, angry perhaps; now she simply seemed sad. He wondered what she had gotten into in the past four years to change her—and prevent her from delivering the Amulet. Regardless, he breathed a small sigh of relief when the University's gates rose up before them.

He gave the woman inside the name, and after a few minutes of waiting, the mage walked in. "I am Tar-Meena. You wished to speak with me?"

"Yes." Baurus took the initiative in introducing them. "I'm Baurus, of the Blades, and this is my associate Lily. We were actually looking for some information on the Mythic Dawn." A brief expression of surprise crossed the woman's face.

"You know of them? They're one of the most secretive of all the daedric cults. Not much is known about them."

"But you know what there is to know." Lily surprised him by speaking up.

"Yes." Tar-Meena seemed slightly put out by Lily's bluntness, but a faint gleam appeared in her eyes at the opportunity to talk about her favorite subject. "They follow the teachings of Mankar Camoran, who they call the Master. A shadowy figure in his own right."

"Well, we seem to have discovered some sort of book of theirs." Baurus unwrapped the wine-soaked volume, and the woman's eyes brightened.

"Ah, yes. 'Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes.' You have a scholarly interest in daedric cults, then?"

"Yes."

"Actually, we need to find the Mythic Dawn." Baurus and Lily spoke at the same time, and he winced. Painting them in a bad light had been exactly what he was trying to avoid. Tar-Meena frowned.

"All right," she said slowly. "Say no more. I've worked with the Blades before. 'Official business' and all that. I won't poke my nose any further. In any case, it won't be easy. I myself have studied Mankar Camoran's writings—at least those of which I could find. It is clear from the text that the Commentaries come in four volumes, but I've only ever come across the first two. However, I believe that they contain hidden clues to the location of the Mythic Dawn's secret shrine to Mehrunes Dagon. Those who unlock this hidden path have proven themselves worthy to join the Mythic Dawn. Finding the shrine is the first test."

Baurus exchanged a quick look with Lily. "If we needed to find the last two volumes, how would we go about looking for them?"

"Well, to start with, why don't you take the library's copy of Volume II," the mage offered. "If you'll just give me a moment, I can get it for you." Baurus nodded.

"That would be much appreciated. Thank you." When she had disappeared through the door, he turned to Lily with a disapproving glance. "The fewer people who know about this, the better. From now on, you let me do the talking. Understood?"

She frowned. "I was just trying to help. You can't get the right answers if you don't ask the right questions."

"Regardless, this is Blades' work," he reprimanded. "You have to understand that we're representing the Emperor himself here, and you need to consider how things could possibly be misconstrued. Imagine if word were to spread that Martin Septim was trying to join a daedric cult?" She pursed her lips and looked as though she were about to object, but Tar-Meena chose that moment to return.

"Here we go," she announced, handing over a cloth-wrapped volume. "Treat it gently, if you please! As I said, I've never even seen the third and fourth volumes, but Phintias at the First Edition in the Market district may be able to help. He caters to specialist collectors. Good luck with your search, and be sure to tell me how it turns out!" They bade their farewells, and once outside, Lily turned to Baurus.

"I've heard of Phintias. He's trouble," she said flatly. Baurus frowned.

"What kind of trouble?" he asked suspiciously.

"The ruthless kind. The man will stop at nothing to get what he wants. He's also incredibly petty." She hesitated, and Baurus had a feeling of what she was going to ask before it even came out of her mouth. "It might be better if I dealt with him alone."

"Of course." He stopped in the middle of the bridge and crossed his arms over his chest. "I thought you might say that."

"Please, Baurus." Her voice had turned pleading, something that was off-putting in and of itself. "I know how to deal with him. You said it yourself, you're a Blade. A representative of the Emperor. Well, I'm not. If we do this my way, I guarantee you we will get the results we want. Quickly."

"You can't _hurt_ him," he began to object, but she cut him off.

"I won't. I swear. You can wait at an inn, and I'll come find you when I'm done. This will be the best way. Trust me," she insisted, but he rolled his eyes.

"You think I'm going to believe that? You know, I saw your record in the aftermath. I know what you did, _Elbereth._" Her eyes widened, but then her face grew hard. She moved so quickly by the time he realized what was happening, she had grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked his head down to her eye level.

"_Never_ call me that," she hissed into his ear through clenched teeth. "Especially not in public. And you know _nothing _about me." He easily broke her hold and straightened back up.

"Fine. We'll do it your way. But I'll wait outside. And if _any_ harm at all comes to him, I will not hesitate to turn you in to the guards." He gave her his best menacing look, an expression he had perfected over the years. She nodded.

"Fair enough. I promise you, you won't regret this. If he's got them, we'll have them within the hour. And if not, we'll be on our way to get them."

But twenty minutes later, as he was leaning against the side of the First Edition, Baurus felt as though he was already beginning to regret it. Here he was, with a girl who had casually killed eight people as a teenager, and he had agreed to let her do things "her way." He was about to enter the shop himself when the door suddenly flew open and a torrent of angry shouts poured out.

"—never want to see you in my shop again! Get out! Out!" She burst out in a sweep of her black robes, quickly shutting the door behind her. Planting herself flat against the wall, she exhaled deeply.

"Don't worry, he's fine," she reassured him before he had a chance to say anything. "You can go in and check if you'd like, but he's in a bit of a bad temper right now." Baurus decided he didn't really need to know what had gone down in there—at least not at the moment.

"Did you get the books?" he asked impatiently. She shook her head.

"No."

"Then—should we go and get them?" He pronounced his suggestion like an order, but she shook her head again.

"No. We're going to wait here for a man named Gwinas to come pick up Volume III. And then we're going to get it from him."

"I'm not even going to ask." He huffed as he leaned back against the wall beside her. But as time wore on, the uncomfortable silence between them only grew more strained.

"How long do we have to wait here?" he asked about an hour later. The sun above was scorching, his legs were tired and he was growing thirsty. All of this was bearable, though; the silence, on the other hands, was not. She squinted at the sun.

"Not too much longer. He said he'd be coming by around five." And a few minutes later, a well-dressed man strolled past them into the shop. "Him." She turned to Baurus excitedly, pointing over her shoulder at the shop door. He had been thinking the same.

"He looks the part, at least." Baurus shifted, giving himself a better view of the door. "Guess we'll find out here in a minute. But let me handle this one." He eyed her carefully, and she nodded. But several minutes passed, and the Bosmer didn't emerge. "This shouldn't be taking so long," he muttered. She nodded her agreement.

"I'm going in there." She made for the door, but he grabbed her arm, perhaps more forcefully than needed.

"What did I say about letting me handle this?" he hissed. She huffed irritably, but leaned back against the wall once again. "Besides, after what I heard in there, you're sure that's such a good idea?"

"I don't care," she muttered. "We _need _that book. One way or another." But before he could reply, the door swung open once again, and the man stepped out into the sunlight, shielding his eyes from the glare. And beneath his arm was a bulkily-wrapped package. Baurus quickly stepped out in front of him.

"Excuse me, sir. A moment of your time?" The other man blinked in surprise.

"May I help you with something?" he asked warily.

"As a matter of fact, yes." Baurus nodded. "My name is Baurus, and I'm a member of the Blades. Could you tell me what that is you've got there?" He gestured towards the package. The man frowned.

"It's a book," he said curtly. "That I just bought from a _book shop_." He pointed at the sign above his head, a deep crease still present between his eyebrows. "Now if you'll excuse me…" He made a move to sidestep out of the way, but Baurus quickly blocked him.

"Are you Gwinas?" he pressed. The other man gave an angry huff.

"Yes. I'm Gwinas. Now is there actually something I can help you with, or could you find someone else to bother?"

"So that _is _Volume III of the Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes?" At that, the man's expression soured further.

"Oh, it's _you_," he spat, hugging the package tighter still. "Phintias _said _there was someone in here bothering him about it earlier. And I said he was _mad_ to think you'd actually be lying in wait out here. Guard?" He began glancing around, but the closest one was engaged in a deep conversation. He attempted to walk in that direction, but Baurus once again blocked his way, gritting his teeth as he shot a very pointed look at Lily, who was blank-facedly watching the exchange.

"Just a second, Gwinas. There's no need to get excited. I'd like to buy the book from you. It is imperative that the Blades find the Mythic Dawn, and I understand it's impossible to do so without all four volumes." But Gwinas backed away, frantically shaking his head.

"No. Absolutely not. I'm sorry, I wish I could help you, but I've spent _years _on my collection. Do you realize how hard it was to even _find _this?"

Baurus tried another tactic. "Gwinas, you are obstructing an investigation right now. This is a criminal offense under Tamrielic law. You can accept my offer, or you can hand the book over and walk away."

"No!" The elf's voice was rising, and by the way Lily was frowning over his shoulder, Baurus suspected that the guard had taken note of the confrontation. "What part of _I'm not giving it up _don't you understand? It's _mine. _I contracted another individual to track it down, and I paid for it, fair and square. You have no right to it. I had _thought_ the Emperor's personal guard would be above shaking down harmless citizens for their possessions!" he finished smugly.

"The Mythic Dawn killed the Emperor, you idiot!" Baurus froze in shock as Lily's voice lashed out, cold and commanding, no trace of the timid tones remaining. He and Gwinas both turned to stare at her as she glowered at the elf, the latter going unnaturally pale.

"They—the Mythic Dawn—I—what?" He nervously licked his lips, and to Baurus' amazement, he held out the package, glancing back and forth between the two of them, as if unsure who to hand it to. "I—I had no idea. You have to believe me." He had dropped his gaze to his shoes. "Here, please take it. I don't want any part in this."

"We believe you, Gwinas." Baurus quickly took the packaged, clutching it tighter than Gwinas ever had. "Thank you for your cooperation. The Empire thanks you." He nodded to Lily and the two of them turned to leave, but Gwinas called out.

"Wait!" They paused, and he moved in closer, glancing over his shoulder. "You—you said you were trying to find them." At Baurus' nod, he continued. "The fourth volume—you can only get it from a member of the Mythic Dawn themselves." He fumbled in his pocket for a moment, then produced a crumpled piece of parchment. "I had an—an appointment with one of them later. Please, understand—I didn't know. I had nothing to do with any of this." He pushed it into Lily's hands, then hurried away, guiltily glancing over his shoulder as he went.

"Luther Broad's" Baurus hissed in Lily's ear. "Don't look at anyone. Don't say a word." And for once, miraculously, she obeyed.

When the door of Baurus' rented room was shut and bolted behind them, he whirled on her. "What in Oblivion was that?" he roared. She sighed.

"Calm down, Baurus. Someone's going to hear you."

"I _told _you to let me handle it," he insisted. "But you just couldn't keep your mouth shut, could you?"

"He wasn't going to give it up!" she protested. "The guard was coming over! What did you expect me to do? And it worked, didn't it?"

"That's not the point, and you know it," he retorted. He turned away, setting the book down on the bed, and when he turned back to her, his mind was made up. "Go. Back to Cloud Ruler Temple. On second thought, forget that. You did the job the Emperor asked you to. Now go back to whatever hole you crawled out of." Something dark flashed over her eyes, but she calmly brought her arms up and folded them across her chest.

"Baurus," she said slowly, almost sadly. "This is my chance at redemption just as much as it is yours." She paused. "I know what happened to you. Getting turned out, I mean. And I am sorry. I don't even know how to tell you how sorry I am. I know it was my fault." She took a tentative step toward him, and then another when he didn't move away. "Jauffre wanted us to work together on this for a reason." And to his utter surprise, she laid a hand on his arm, a gesture of comfort. "He said to tell you not to blame yourself for the Emperor's death."

And for a moment, he found himself nearly breaking into a laugh. Typical Jauffre. The words were meant to be comforting, but even though he'd denied all the accusations leveled at him, what no one seemed to realize was that it actually was entirely his fault. He sighed just the same, though, and found himself nodding.

"This is your last chance. From now on, you do exactly as I say. Otherwise, instead of sending you home, I will take you into custody. And I highly doubt you're looking for another stay in the Imperial Prison." He didn't bother mentioning that her pardon had never been made official, given Chancellor Ocato's disbelief of the entire situation, but if she was still wasn't using her real name, he figured that she'd assumed as much. Either way, she nodded earnestly.

"I promise." She withdrew the note from the folds of her robe. "Shall we see what this is about?" She smoothed it out, and together, they peered at the spidery writing.

_Gwinas,_

_Your interest in the writings of the Master has been noted. You are taking the first steps towards true enlightenment. Persevere, and you may yet join the exalted ranks of the Chosen._

_If you wish to continue further down the Path of Dawn, you will need the fourth volume of the Master's "Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes." It can be obtained only from a member of the Order of the Mythic Dawn. As your designated Sponsor, I will pass on my copy to you if I deem you worthy._

_Study the first three volumes of the Master's writings. Look for the hidden meaning in his words, as best as you are able._

_Come to the Sunken Sewers under the Elven Gardens in the Imperial City at midnight on the 31__st__. Come alone. Follow the main tunnel until you reach the room with the table and chair. Sit down. I will meet you there, and give you what you desire._

_The Sponsor_

The met each other's gaze. "Tonight." Lily turned away, setting her pack down and shrugging out of her robe, and Baurus began to cough uncontrollably as the smell of burning filled his head.

"By the Nine, what did you _do_?" he managed to ask. His lungs felt as though they themselves had been ignited, and he could swear he'd seen a puff of ash go floating toward the ceiling.

"Walked through Oblivion," she deadpanned. A joke, but it wasn't funny. "Should we go?" she asked, strapping a dagger to her boot. He nodded as she reshouldered her pack, and then they tromped back down the stairs and onto the street.

He knew where the entrance to the sewer was, and they quickly made their way to it. It was twilight, and many citizens had retreated into their homes, for which he was grateful. The fewer people who saw them, the better. He had a good idea of each sleeper agent's habits and patterns, but with the death of one of their own, along with the incident in the market, he didn't know who might be watching. Pulling back the grate to the sewers, he motioned for Lily to descend first. "Oh, _Gods_," he heard her say when she reached the bottom, and he fought back a smirk. Secretly, he thought her reaction was right on point.

He dropped down after her, closing the sewer as gently as he could, but even so, he winced at the clatter. They had trudged through the darkness for several minutes before they encountered the first of the mudcrabs, but the two of them managed to cut through them easily. The changes to the way she fought didn't escape his attention, though. He remembered the clumsy death grip she'd had on that borrowed shortsword the night of the assassinations, and he only eyed her more warily than ever. Somewhere along the way, she'd received formal training.

"So what did you say to him?" he finally asked, after they'd been trekking through the semi-darkness for nearly an hour. She shrank to the side to avoid a spilling of sewage.

"What did I say to who?" she asked absently, but he had a feeling she know what he was talking about.

"The bookstore owner." He carefully inched his way across the narrow bridge, carefully eyeing the sewage on either side. The urge to vomit had gradually faded, but his eyes and lungs were still stinging. "He was pretty worked up. You obviously had something on him."

She sighed, and as the moments of silence ticked on, he wondered if she was even going to answer. "I know some people who know things," she said finally. "And it would seem Phintias had…called in a favor with the Dark Brotherhood some time back."

"Gods' blood!" He whirled to face her without thinking, but luckily, he had made it to the other side. "That guy?" He frowned. "He hardly seems the type."

She shrugged. "Well apparently he is. I just mentioned it, and he was all too willing to tell me what we needed to know. He didn't take it too well, though."

"I'll say." They continued on in silence until they reached the branch-off. "Damnit," he muttered as he slammed a shoulder into the door.

"Problem?" She moved up beside him, frowning.

"It's been sealed from the other side." Even in the dim lighting, he saw her go pale, and he knew she was thinking the same thing he was even before she spoke.

"A trap?"

"Probably not." He fidgeted just the same. "Maintenance workers will sometimes close off different branches for various reasons. However, I know this area, and there's an alternate route." Even as he said the words, he felt himself growing sick.

"Oh?" she asked. He nodded grimly, and pointed toward the canal.

"Oh, you have _got _to be kidding me."

"I wish I was." Steeling himself, he tentatively stepped up to the edge, and before he could think too much about it, plunged over the side. It reached his knees, and as his boots sank into the sludge on the bottom, he nearly began to retch. Composing himself, he turned back to Lily. She had reached the edge, but he could see her shrinking back.

"I don't think I can," she said faintly. He rolled his eyes.

"Well, you've got to. Come on. If this is the worst thing that ever happens to you, then you're getting off pretty easy." Whatever it was about that statement, something seemed to click with her. She set her jaw and sprang down after him. Instantly, a look of revulsion spread across her face. He nodded grimly. "I know. Let's get out of here."

They quickly waded through—or at least as quickly as they could manage. Nevertheless, it felt like it had been hours when they finally scrambled up out of it. "If we make it out of this alive," Lily said thickly, "I am burning this armor. And then I'm going to take about a hundred baths."

"_When _we make it out," Baurus corrected. He suddenly took in the odd ensemble she was wearing. She was cloaked head to toe in a dark, skintight armor, yet for some reason wore an enormous, mismatched pair of leather gauntlets. On an impulse, he spoke up. "Mind if I ask you something?"

She frowned warily. "I suppose."

"Why did you do it?" The question had been plaguing him for years now.

"Do what?" Her tone was even as ever—only given her present agitation, it seemed forced. Was she really trying to play dumb?

"Why did you kill those people?" Despite the nearly unbreathable air, she inhaled sharply, and he saw her shoulders stiffen.

"It's a very long story," she said quietly. "It was an ugly situation with no easy solution. Neither side was going to walk away unscathed. It seemed like the best solution at the time. Or maybe the only solution. I could say that I was young and foolish, but that's not entirely true. I knew what I was doing. Only I don't think I fully understood all the ramifications at the time." She shrugged, refusing to meet his gaze. "I don't think I can honestly say that I regret it. But I do wish it hadn't turned out the way it did."

Somehow, her explanation left him feeling more confused and conflicted than ever. He frowned, but she was speaking.

"Can I ask _you _something?" She was now studying him with a careful expression that he didn't really like.

"Go ahead," he sighed wearily.

"Why did _you_ do it?" When he glanced in her direction, her eyes had grown surprisingly soft. "You knew my new name and where I was headed. I know you kept the Legion from going after me, even after you heard what I did. And I know you lost your career for it. Why take such a gamble on me?"

He sighed, long and drawn out. How to explain? "The Emperor trusted you," he said gruffly. "And I trusted him." He hoped she'd leave it at that, but she pressed on.

"Why?"

He exhaled slowly. "Why did he trust you, or why did I trust him?"

"Both." What could it hurt?

"I don't know what he saw in you. But you could tell. We all could. As soon as he spoke to you, we could all see it. I'll be honest with you, none of us liked it. But there would be no changing his mind. And, well, he seemed to always be right about such things."

"Is that why you trusted him?"

"No," he answered after a moment. "Well, yes in part, but that wasn't the real reason. When you're at least thirty and have a decade of commendable military service under your belt, you may start to consider applying for Blades training, but even then it's still a pipe dream. When you're a twenty-three year old arena combatant with ten septims to your name and a shady past…" He snorted. "You're a lunatic. Yet here I am." He shook his head.

"I guess you could say he saw something in me the way he did in you. He himself appointed me to his personal guard, after a lengthy talk about stars and dreams that I didn't understand half of. Sometimes, though, I wonder if the old bastard knew more than he let on. I don't know why I let you leave that day. Looking back, I'm not sure I would do so again. But I guess I always just assumed he knew what he was doing." He hesitated. "But I know for certain, Renault or Glenroy would have never let you waltz out of there with the Amulet of Kings in hand."

She grew strangely quiet, and he suddenly felt immensely uncomfortable, as though he had revealed too much. But much to his relief, the door to the chamber the Sponsor had indicated was right ahead of them. "All right," he said quietly, lowering his voice considerably. "Here we are. Like I said, I'm going to take this one." He pointed up a set of nearby stairs. "But if you head up there, you'll end up on a balcony overlooking the room. You'll be able to see everything.

He allowed his tone to grow serious. "Under _no circumstances _are you to interfere," he said sternly. "It's not just the book we're after here. If there's anything they might have to say that could help us, they can't say it if they're dead. This needs to be seen through. Remember what I said. I will not hesitate to arrest you if you interfere." She nodded solemnly, and they parted ways.

Inside, he made his way over the table and chair, lit by a lone candle. He carefully sat down, feeling the mildewed wood give under his weight. Turning his head ever so slightly to the right, he could just make out Lily crouched in the shadows of the balcony, but he didn't let his gaze linger. He had the distinct feeling of being watched, and he wasn't about to give away her position.

As he waited, his unease only grew. As a retired Arena combatant, he was used to being on display, even used to being surrounded by crowds screaming for his death. This, though, was far more sinister. The idea occurred to him that perhaps the Mythic Dawn really had surrounded the chamber and were watching him, but then the iron gate across from him clanged open, and the Sponsor walked in.

His red robes brushed along the filthy floor as he advanced, but he didn't seem to even notice. "So," he began curtly, without introduction. "You want to become one of the Chosen of Mehrunes Dagon." Baurus simply nodded, with a look he hoped was coming across as feverish and fanatical. It seemed to work, as the Sponsor smiled. However, he had "fish eyes," as his mother had called them, cold and dead, and so the smile only made him appear more menacing.

"The Path is difficult, but the rewards are great." He planted his hands on the table and leaned down into Baurus' face. "I have the book you seek. With it and the Master's three other books, you will possess the key to enlightenment. But do you have the wit and strength to use the key you have been given?" Baurus suddenly imagined snobby, flighty little Gwinas sitting here in his place, and fought the urge to snicker out loud.

"If Lord Dagon wills it," he said instead, "I'm certain I won't disappoint." The Sponsor laughed, smooth as silk and cold as ice.

"Yes, I think you may," he said thoughtfully. Another slaughterfish-like smile. "I hope to see you next at Dagon's shrine. Though keep in mind…" His voice trailed off then, his smile disappearing as he stared blankly at Baurus.

"Wait." His voice snapped forth, and Baurus instantly knew he was in trouble. As he fought the urge to reach for his blade, the only thought running through his mind, strangely enough, was, _Lily, _please _don't move, don't move, don't move…_

"I've seen you before! You're that Blade that Brother Astav was trailing!" As he summoned the trademark Mythic Dawn armor, Baurus jerked his own blade free. "Brothers, kill this pretender!" He summoned blade met Baurus' shorter one with a screech of metal, and Baurus gritted his teeth. He parried the blow, only to have a shower of electrical sparks blast his side. He felt his limbs jerk as he narrowly avoided biting down on his own tongue. Leave it to these fools to fight dirty.

He lifted his blade, but the magical attack had weakened him. His movements felt numb, out of control as they exchange blows. A few quick strikes in rapid succession, and he had been disarmed. Stumbling backward, he caught the legs of the table, swinging it upward and smashing it into his opponent's face. The rotted wood instantly disintegrated upon impact, but it gave him the window he needed. Snatching up his blade, he dove at the Sponsor, but the other man was enraged now.

Baurus was beginning to register the pain spreading along his side. The Sponsor, however, seemed only fueled by his fury. And then, even as it happened, Baurus suddenly realized he had missed parrying a crucial blow. He didn't even feel the blade as it cleaved open his torso, from shoulder to hip. The Sponsor was screaming something, but it was unintelligible over the ringing in his ears. He was floating toward the floor. Of course this was how it was meant to be. But the book, where was Lily, they had to get the book…

* * *

As he rose out of the fog, he could hear the sound of his name. "Baurus! Come on, Baurus, come on!" Come where? He tried to ask, but his lips couldn't form the syllables. There was a sudden sting, and the walls of the chamber rose up around him.

He was lying flat on his back, the face of a very frantic woman looming over him. Mother? he tried to ask. But no. Even at the end, his mother's face had sparkled with life. This woman was haggard, and, he gradually noted, a Bosmer. His mission slowly returned to him. Lily. "Where is it?" he asked. She gasped in relief, sagging back on her heels as he struggled to sit up.

"Thank the Nine. I thought I'd lost you." She began to giggle in a manner that made her seem slightly unhinged.

"What happened?" he managed to ask. Glancing down, he saw that his shirt had been torn away, a long, ragged wound snaking down across his chest. The flesh along his right side was rippled and bubbled with a shiny pink surface, and when he tried to lift that arm, it pulled painfully. The memories rushing back, he winced, allowing himself to sag back down to the floor again.

"I really don't know much Restoration. I'm sorry." She frowned, her giggles subsided. "I managed to stop the bleeding, and I tried to do something about the shock damage, but I think I might have done it wrong. It should be enough to get you out of here, but we need to get you to a real healer immediately. Can you stand?" He managed to loop his good arm around her neck, and he heard her grunt as she hauled him up, his feet slipping on the floor.

He was standing, but his legs had gone limp, turned to jelly. "The book?" he asked.

"Right here." With her free hand, she nudged her pack. A few yards away, the Sponsor was sprawled out—but there was another body, too. Glancing up, he saw what appeared to be an arm dangling over the edge of the balcony. Suddenly, he remembered the Sponsor calling for help—help that hadn't arrived. He frowned.

"What happened up there?"

She glanced down nervously. "They showed up while you two were talking. I didn't do anything until the fight started, I swear. I was born under the Shadow, so I just hid. When you drew your sword, I pushed him. Then the other one came running out, so I took him down. By then you were in major trouble. I'm sorry."

"Thank you," he said. Her head snapped toward him, and she frowned.

"For what?"

"For doing what I asked you to."

She sighed. "You don't have to mock me, you know," she said bitterly. "I'm sorry, but I wasn't about to let him kill you and waltz out with the book."

"No. That wasn't what I meant. It was a lost cause by then. I meant for not interfering with the Sponsor, even when he called me out. You did exactly what you were supposed to."

"I did?" Even through the pain, he almost laughed out loud at her amazement.

"Yes." He paused for a moment, sagging against her. Perhaps it was the fact that she'd now saved his life twice, but somehow, she didn't seem nearly as sinister. The woman carrying him out of the sewer hardly seemed to have anything in common with the dark specter that had haunted his consciousness for the past four years. "You know something?" He could hear his speech slurring as pain rattled through him in ragged gasps, breathing him back toward unconsciousness. "You're all right." He could hardly believe he was saying the words. "I don't know if I'll ever forgive you. I don't even know if you deserve it. But you handled yourself as well as any Blade today. And we're lucky to have you on our side."

She didn't reply, whether from embarrassment or from the effort of holding him upright. But he still took her silence to mean acceptance of the olive branch he was offering. And somehow, it wouldn't have seemed right any other way.


	39. Chapter 36: Breaking the Chain

Chapter 36: Breaking the Chain

I sighed as I slapped shut Volume III. "That's it. I can't stare at this a second longer." I massaged my throbbing temples, glancing over to see Baurus' baleful glare.

"Then give it to me." He lunged for it, but his breath caught in his throat. I moved quickly, gently pressing him back down, making certain to keep my hands away from the wound.

"Stop. You're going to tear it back open." Daedric weapons were going to prove to be the bane of my existence. I remembered what Arquen had always said about them dealing the worst kind of hard-to-heal damage; apparently that was a shared sentiment among those in the Restoration field. To fix Baurus back up good as new would have cost a whopping three thousand septims. Neither of us was carrying that kind of coin—and the healers weren't accepting credit. I'd shouted at them. I'd begged and threatened. I'd name-dropped. But they had staunchly refused, murmuring something about policy while guiltily glancing away.

But we'd been able to afford a newly-trained healer to perform some lesser magic, and at any rate, it was better than the shoddy job I'd done. And the name of the Blades apparently still carried weight in some circles, as the publican at Luther Broad's had agreed to continue letting us stay there, free of charge, while Baurus got back on his feet. Even with his compromised medical attention, he'd been making progress in leaps and bounds, and I'd arranged for a carriage to take him to Bruma the next day, where another Blade would meet him to get him to Cloud Ruler Temple. However, we'd spent the past three days pouring over the Commentaries, and we still hadn't made any progress.

"We're running out of time, Lily," he warned as he dropped back to the pillows. "You need to take this seriously. Stop complaining. It's time to get to work. We wouldn't be in this mess if Martin had already been crowned."

"Stop yelling at me," I replied flatly. I knew he was angry, justifiably so, and I knew I deserved every jibe he tossed my way. But it had been five days of constant verbal abuse—except for the moments he'd been unconscious—and I was exhausted. Between trudging through sewers, arguing with miserly healers and rereading the Commentaries about fifteen times, I hadn't slept, and when I did manage to briefly doze off, maelstroms of fire and the stench of death rose in my dreams.

I stood and stretched my arms up over my head, wincing as my back cracked and a hint of pain flared through my shoulder. The old injury had acted up once again, thanks to my stunt on the balcony the other day. "I'm going for a walk." I drew up my hood and headed for the door.

"You're kidding, right? Get back here," Baurus began, but I cut him off.

"I need to clear my head. Get a new perspective. You're a big boy, Baurus. You'll be just fine by yourself for fifteen minutes." And I fled before he could form a retort. I did feel slightly bad, though; the man had suffered enough on my account. But still, I couldn't help smirking as I slipped out the front door. It was nice to be able to shoot back at him for once.

It was sunset, and the white stone of the buildings was alight with a soft glow as I made my way through the streets. It was nice, though, not at all like the fires of Oblivion. The streets were still bustling, and I was mostly anonymous as I looped through the patterns of traffic. In a city such as this one, a wide range of characters tended to assemble, and so a hooded figure in dark robes was no one to be trifled with, yet nothing out of the ordinary—for which I was grateful. Outside of that stuffy room, the ramblings filling my head seemed much less suffocating, and as I mentally ran through the passages, patterns began to emerge. I was wandering along a street leading to the heart of the city when it finally clicked. Whirling so fast I nearly bowled over the woman behind be, I dashed back to the inn.

"What the Sponsor said. About the key," I blurted out as I burst into the room. Baurus sat bolt upright for a moment, but when he realized it was only me, he rolled his eyes and settled back down. "He distinctly used that word. It keeps appearing in the Commentaries, too." I crossed to the desk, where all four volumes were neatly lined up. "I noticed it before, but I really didn't think about it until now. In each volume there are these…key phrases…" I prattled on as I flipped through pages, scratching notes onto a sheet of parchment. It was harder work than it should have been; although my hands were completely healed, they still felt stiff and resistant when I attempted any task requiring fine motor control.

"…and then it should turn out…yes." I wrote down the last bit, then turned to Baurus, fluttering the still-drying parchment frantically. "See?" I shoved it at him. "Green Emperor Way at noon. Where the tower touches the sun." Baurus sat up, and for the first time, there was no trace of hostility in his eyes; instead, it had been replaced by curiosity.

"Interesting," he said slowly. "I've heard about something along those lines; of messages being hidden in sundials, but to create something this large-scale?" He shook his head. "Impressive. And troubling. This was going on under our very noses." I frowned along with him.

"I'll see you off tomorrow and go straight there." I expected him to nod in agreement, but instead, his glare returned.

"Absolutely not. If we find the location, I need to go there. I'm the only agent in the area; they're all at Cloud Ruler or out of province…" He would have continued, but I took that moment to interrupt.

"Baurus, you can barely walk. I'll do it."

"This is Blades' work," he snapped at me, and I sighed.

"I know. But like you said. You're the only agent in the area, and I'm the next best option. It needs to get done, Baurus. Be honest with yourself. You can't do it." And the argument wore on for the next hour. Tempers flared. He called me selfish, untrustworthy and unreliable. I said he was a delusional fool. But in the end, he finally relented, and at nine the next morning, I was helping him up into the carriage.

He was tight-lipped with pain, but once he was settled, the fire returned to his eyes. "I meant what I said. If you find anything, send word immediately." I agreed, and once the carriage was rattling down the hill, I returned to the city and headed for Green Emperor Way.

As the hub of the City, the district saw a lot of traffic, both with visitors to the palace and others just looking for a shortcut across the city. But the area running around the outer edge was strangely quiet, with only tombs of long-dead dignitaries filling it. I wove my way among the gravestones, squinting up at White Gold Tower as I tried not to trip over displaced stones in the path. It wasn't quite noon yet, but the tip was looming ever closer to the sun. When I noticed its shadow spilling down across the way, I quickly headed in that direction, remember what Baurus had said about sundials.

There didn't appear to be anything significant, but then I caught a flash of red out of the corner of my eye, and it seemed to be steadily growing stronger. Quickly stepping over to it, I blinked in surprise as I saw what appeared to be a map of the province with a flaming sun rising over it, glowing on the side of a tomb. And there it was, a strange star shape marked slightly northwest of Cheydinhal. Hurridly unfolding my own map, I carefully marked the location and then rushed off to the Black Horse Courier offices. I left a message to be delivered to Jauffre before heading off to the stables. I had never been more grateful for Shadowmere's speed. Timing was crucial here, and I had an important stop to make first. It was a nagging idea that had first come to me in the sewers, but I'd found myself thinking more and more about it over the past several days.

And as I stood over the traitor's bones, a quiet thrill ran through me at the knowledge that this could be the last time I did this. Still, I reached out to brush the surface of the statue and whispered the incantation. "Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, speak your whispers of death unto me." And there was the faint tickling like icy fingers over my mind as the Night Mother spoke.

"You're late, my child." The eerie sensation of her voice ringing through my head never really faded away. "I had expected you days ago."

"Most honored mother." I couldn't believe I was doing this. "When you named me your Listener, I asked you why you would do so when I stood there defying you, and you said it was for the sake of the Brotherhood's future. Well, trouble's here, and I'm going to be making some changes." My heart was beginning to pound faster. Bold, angry words were one thing—a carefully planned coup was another.

"Oh? Do tell, my child." She sounded amused, and I couldn't tell if it was a good or bad thing.

"Mehrunes Dagon is coming for all of Tamriel, and so the Brotherhood will _not_ be performing any more assassinations. There's going to be plenty of death in the near future, and if anyone were so petty as to request an assassination, then such a fool would not be worthy of the Brotherhood's time." I took a deep breath.

"I'm turning us into an army. Oblivion Gates are staring to spring up all over the place. I'm going to reassign members from larger Sanctuaries to cities that don't have any. Profit won't matter if we're all dead, and it was always supposed to be the Brotherhood's secondary motive anyway, wasn't it? Sithis needs souls, and he's going to get them. I'm no expert on Mysticism, but some of the creatures coming out of these Gates have souls to rival any mortal's. He gets what he wants, and we all get to live to die another day." I was met with silence, and I instantly realized I had made a huge mistake. Who was I to think I could take the Dark Brotherhood and simply turn it on its head like that? But then the Night Mother began to laugh.

"Child," she said in a tone that was almost gentle. "The affairs of Daedra are of no concern to Sithis." Of course. I steeled myself as she continued speaking. "But I do know of this Mehrunes Dagon. And if he swallows the world and all its souls along with it, Sithis goes hungry." I could scarcely believe what I was hearing.

"Create your army, child. Destroy this Daedra. Save your world. Then return to doing what the Brotherhood does best." She laughed again. "At last, you understand why you were chosen." And I was instantly uncomfortable once again.

"Thank you, Night Mother. I assure you, the Dark Brotherhood will not fail."

"Go, child. May Sithis walk with you." And my mind was quiet once more.

At the Sanctuary, I called everyone into the main room after a quick discussion with Arquen. "Brothers and Sisters," I began. There had been two more additions, unfamiliar faces still filled with fear at being addressed by the Listener. "You have served Sithis well, and done the Dark Brotherhood proud. But there is a new threat we must address." I paused. "Oblivion Gates have opened. Daedra roam free across our world. And so from now on, the Dark Brotherhood will no longer be performing assassinations."

Silence. The expressions on the faces staring at me ranged from shock to confusion to suspicion.

"But we're the _Dark Brotherhood_," one of them spoke up. A new recruit, young and angry. "It's what we _do_." Arquen shot him an angry glare, but I spoke sweetly.

"Actually, what we do is send souls to Sithis. Our Dread Father does not discriminate. He'll take daedra just as willingly as he'll take mortals, and so that's what we'll send him. We're going to be patrolling this city and the surrounding area, day and night. Any sign of trouble, we'll be there. Get citizens to safety, and don't let any daedra through the gates. And if you come across any maniacs in red robes, kill them. Any questions?"

The same assassin spoke up. "But what about the _money_?" I continued to smile brightly at him.

"If Mehrunes Dagon drags us all to Oblivion, money's not going to do you much good, now is it?" My tone was dripping with venom, despite my smile. "And besides, if Cheydinhal is attacked by daedra, loot the corpses. Dremora hearts. Clanfear claws. Scamp skin. Alchemists will pay well for those kinds of rare ingredients. But right now, we have an important task ahead of us. Marisa?"

"Here, Listener." Her tone was lazy as ever, but I could see the fear reflected in her dark eyes. The mention of an Oblivion invasion had clearly upset and, and I knew she was thinking of her daughter, wherever the child might be.

"I'm putting you in charge. Make up a schedule for patrols. It'll be you and the new recruits. As for Caius and N'ohbody…" I turned to the Sanctuary's senior members—although the term seemed like a joke after only five months. "You two are coming with Arquen and me."

"There it is." I pointed to the opening just visible across the lake. "Now, remember. Hold your positions until I return. Kill anything that comes out of that cave. N'ohbody, you're my strongest fighter. I want you right by the entrance. Caius, will that be a suitable vantage point?" I gestured to the outcropping of rock I had in mind. He nodded.

"Actually, that will be perfect. I can get a clear shot at the door, and still snipe a good distance if any get past." I nodded, and he headed off.

"Arquen, you're my safety net. I want you on this side of the lake." I paused. "Any last questions?"

"Watch yourself in there, Listener. Make sure you come back alive." Arquen never really seemed to lose that tone of scornful concern.

I smiled grimly. "That's the plan." Gesturing to N'ohbody, I stepped toward the edge of the lake.

He seemed tentative to walk beside me as we clambered over the rocks, crossing to the other side. He had never really seemed to forget my reaction to his comment about Lucien when we had first met—for which I was actually grateful. Before being thrust into this position, I hadn't had any experience as a leader. I didn't know how to command authority or manage people—I was an assassin, and I worked alone. But somehow, my authority had rarely been questioned, although I secretly suspected that had a lot to do with Arquen. Perhaps that was the real reason I had been chosen as Listener—I was just rash and clueless enough to make bold decisions no one in their right mind would even consider. Like completely overturning the Dark Brotherhood and redefining it in all but name within a single day. I sighed, but we had reached the cave entrance.

"All right, this is it," I murmured. "Take care of yourself. I don't know how long this will take."

He nodded. "Good luck, Listener," he muttered gruffly before taking up his place beside the entrance, just out of sight.

I stepped into the shadows, carefully making my way along the rocky floor. Perhaps I should have had some sense of foreboding, but it appeared to be just an ordinary cave like any other. At least until I rounded a corner to the glow of torchlight and saw a massive wooden door, hewn into the rock itself. It was flanked on either side by banners displaying the same flaming sun the map had shown. And standing in front of it was one of cultists.

I froze, my fingers itching to reach for my weapon. But he hadn't made any move to summon weapons or armor. Instead, he stared at me curiously. "Dawn is breaking," he said finally. He was young, I realized, probably only about Enilroth's age. Strange, then, that he would be charged with guarding access to the shrine.

"Greet the new day," I responded, borrowing a line from the Commentaries. It seemed a logical reply, but it suddenly occurred to me that it might not be the correct response. But his face broke into a smile.

"Welcome, sister," he said. "I just need you to wait here for a moment." He took out a set of keys, and after fumbling with the locks on the door, slipped inside, allowing it to thud shut after him with a click.

I waited expectantly, but the minutes wore on, and he didn't return. I could feel the frown spreading across my face. Where was he? Had I somehow given myself away in our thirty-second interaction? But then finally, the door swung open and he stepped through.

"All right. You can go ahead in now," he said, holding the door open with a smile. I uncomfortably returned it as I stepped through. It was strange to interact with a Mythic Dawn agent who wasn't screaming or trying to kill me.

It was much dimmer in here, and as the door shut behind me, something stepped forward from the shadows. "Greetings, Initiate," a thin, reedy voice said. A tall, sharp-featured Dunmer with a wild shock of black hair stood there with his arms crossed over his chest. "I am Harrow, Warden of the Shrine of Dagon. By following the Path of Dawn hidden in the writings of the Master you have earned a place among the Chosen."

"It is an honor, sir," I replied, trying to mimic the heated fervor in Baurus' tone as he'd spoken with the Sponsor.

"You're arrived at a rather inconvenient time, but perhaps that will play out in your favor. You, my dear, just may have the opportunity to be initiated into the order by the Master himself."

"He's _here?_" I couldn't help myself from blurting out in shock, but fortunately it came across as excited awe. Still, my heart was pounding, harder than it ever had on any mere infiltration mission. Mankar Camoran himself was here in this very cavern. So that explained why the door had been guarded by a novice, all higher-ranking members were with Camoran.

"He is." Harrow's eyes glowed, and I instantly saw the clear difference between him and the amicable doorkeeper. This man was a fanatic, loyal to the core and extremely dangerous. Was that the result of differing personalities, or was that simply engrained after a life with the cult? And despite everything, I felt a strangely sympathetic buzz of worry for the doorkeeper.

"But let us prepare. As a member of the Order of the Mythic Dawn, everything you need will be provided for you from the Master's bounty." He paused. "Give me your possessions. All of them."

I struggled to keep a stoic face. This was something I hadn't counted on. I'd left my pack back with Arquen, but I was heavily armed. What if I ended up needing to fight my way out of here? I carefully inhaled, willing my hands not to shake as I carefully unbuckled my sword. It was my beloved Ayleid blade, the one I'd recovered Vilverin all those years ago, back when I'd been nothing but a ragged, bumbling thief. The Blade of Woe—that first gift from Lucien, imbued with the power of the Night Mother—followed, as I stared mournfully after it, barely able to will myself to release my grip on it.

"Your clothing, too." He smiled, in that single gaze, I saw something predatory. A faint warning began to go off in the back of my mind as I shrugged out of my Black Hand robes. They had been Lucien's, I thought sadly as I handed them over. But he was still staring that overly intense stare, and I was suddenly reminded of Bellamont. "All of it." The corners of his mouth flared slightly, along with my temper.

"You have _got_ to be joking," I snapped, but he only smirked.

"The Master requires it of all initiates. And I must warn you, no one leaves this place who does not bind himself to the service of Lord Dagon. But I am sure you will reconsider. You have proven yourself worthy and dedicated to have come this far."

Worthy and dedicated. Perhaps not worthy, but certainly dedicated—to a far greater cause. A cause that wouldn't need to exist were it not for my own doing. Gritting my teeth, I pulled off my boots, chucking them in his direction far harder than necessary. I'd had knives hidden in them—there went the rest of my weapons.

Swallowing my revulsion, I peeled away my shirt and pants, throwing them after my boots. And then the bastard just _stared_ at me. I felt myself withering under his gaze. There it was, everything on display. The puckered indentation in my shoulder from Ungolim's arrow, the curved gash beneath it from his dagger. The stripes along my side from Shaleez's claws. The slash across my collarbone from Bellamont's blade. The slightly-bubbled flesh above my knee, where I'd taken a wave of destruction magic my second year in the Brotherhood. The remains of other various cuts and scrapes I'd accumulated over the years. Every scar had a story behind it. _My _story, all of it laid out before him. And somehow, that bothered me even more than my nakedness as he stood there leering.

He finally offered an all too familiar red robe. "Put on this initiate's robe. The Master awaits." I quickly drew it on as he stuffed my belongings into a leather sack, hooking it onto his belt. The fabric of the robe was thin and coarse, but it was such a relief to just be covered again. I could feel the soles of my bare feet bruising on the protruding rocks of the floor as he led me through a twisting maze of tunnels, finally emerging in a spacious antechamber.

The shrine itself was enormous, I noted as we treaded down the stairs, a detailed statue depicting Mehrunes Dagon in all his four-armed glory. But as we fell in line with the sea of other red robes, my gaze was drawn to something else entirely.

Him. He stood there in a blue robe, waving his hands as he spoke a passionate message. Mankar Camoran himself. Over the past four years, whenever I'd thought on that night, it'd always been the red robes, faceless maniacs who'd been responsible for the horror, possessing as much identity as a force of nature. But now, as I stared at him, that horror finally had a face. He'd orchestrated the entire thing.

"Now not only is the Dragon Throne is empty, but we hold the Amulet of Kings!" he was saying. And then he actually held it up, dangling it by its chain as the red jewel caught a few specks of light from the torches. My gaze instantly zoned in on it. "Praise be to your Brothers and Sisters! Great shall be their reward in Paradise!"

"Praise be!" they echoed as one. The Amulet still hung casually from his fingers. How to get to it? Could I force my way through this crowd fast enough to find a way up there? Would it be so easy to simply snatch it from his fingers? And then the thought: could I _kill _him?

"Hear now the words of Lord Dagon. When I walk the earth again, the faithful among you shall receive their reward: to be set above all other mortals forever." My eyes darted to the bag at Harrow's belt. My belongings were _right there_,taunting me. Could I get them out? I had been a thief, after all. But despite the stereotype, pickpocketing was an art nearly solely reserved for a higher breed of criminal. And I wasn't that good

"As for the rest: the weak shall be winnowed, the timid shall be cast down, the mighty shall tremble at my feet and pray for pardon."

"So sayeth Lord Dagon! Praise be!" I wished they would stop doing that. It was horribly distracting. But either way, it looked like I would just be taking it and running. I took a deep breath. I didn't see weapons, but I knew well enough that they could summon them at a moment's notice. Another quick glance at Harrow informed me his attention was zoned in solely on his master. I began to inch away.

"Your reward, brothers and sisters! The time of Cleansing draws nigh." I was moving now, picking my way around the edge of the crowd. Every instinct screamed at me to hurry, but I forced myself to slow, for fear that I would draw attention to myself. "I go now to Paradise. I shall return with Lord Dagon at the coming of the Dawn!" I looked up to see him turn away and cast a tiny ball of light, which quickly flared out, expanding until it was big enough to engulf him. _Move. _I began pushing my way through the crowd, digging elbows into sides and stepping on toes. Small cries of surprise and disgruntled mutters rose up, but I didn't care at this point. I broke free just in time to see him step into it and vanish—along with the Amulet. I stood still staring up at the now-empty space in disbelief. I had failed.

A hand suddenly clamped down on my arm out of nowhere, and a familiar reedy voice rang out. "We have a new sister who wishes to bind herself to the service of Lord Dagon!" The murmurs that rose up from the crowd were now ones of approval as Harrow propelled me forward. His grip on my arm was vice-like, although his face revealed no suspicion. However, he uncomfortably pressed himself up against my hip as he escorted me to a stone set of stairs at the base of the dais.

"Advance, initiate!" called a tall woman from the top. Harrow finally released me, and I allowed myself to shoot him a dirty look as I ascended. It was a wonder they had managed to amass such an army with him guarding the way, but again, they were fanatics. Perhaps that was how they managed to differentiate between imposters—like me—and the true believers.

"Welcome, initiate," the woman coolly greeted. "It's a shame you didn't arrive earlier. Perhaps you would have had the opportunity to be initiated by my father himself." Her father. Suddenly, a passage from the Commentaries floated back to me. _My first daughter ran from the Dagonite road. Her name was Ruma and I ate her with no bread, and made another… _I gave an involuntary shudder.

"Nevertheless, you have come to dedicate yourself to Lord Dagon's service," she continued. "This pact must be sealed with red-drink—the blood of Lord Dagon's enemies." She suddenly had a silver dagger, and was pressing it into my hand. I involuntarily winced at the touch of her cold, clammy palm. "Take up the dagger and offer Lord Dagon the sacrificial red-drink as a pledge of your own life's blood—which shall be his in the end." She grasped my shoulder and turned me toward the statue itself—and then I saw him.

A battered Argonian lay at the foot of the statue. Skeletal thin and naked, his sides were heaving and his eyes were closed. I felt my heart drop into my stomach. Of course. A mortal sacrifice.

I could feel the sweat breaking out on my forehead as I drew closer. I couldn't do it. Could I? After so many murders over the years, what was one more? A dark whisper snaked up through my thoughts, a throbbing in my pulse. _Do it, Lily, do it now. End this poor fool's suffering. Earn their trust and then find a way out._ I began to tremble, the dagger quivering in my hand. Sweat was soaking through my robe now. _When Sithis speaks, I obey…_

"Lord Dagon thirsts for red-drink!" The woman's—Ruma's—shrill voice interrupted my inner turmoil. "Sate him!" she commanded sharply. I turned to glance at her—and caught sight of the book lying on the podium where Mankar Camoran had stood. Or rather caught sight of the daedric runes covering it—and the faint, almost imperceptible glow emanating from it. And the thought occurred to me that perhaps it just might be useful.

Turning back to the Argonian, I sliced through the bindings at his feet, and swiftly turned to his hands. His eyes had popped open, and as I sliced free his hands, I whispered a single word. "Run."

With a surprising speed for someone in his condition, he leapt up and dove off the corner of the dais. "_Did you just…_" Ruma's terrible, weighted fury rang out, but I had already crossed the dais in two swift strides and snatched up the book. And as a primal scream rang out, I knew—with a sinking sensation—that I'd been right.

"_She dares to touch the sacred Xarxes! Kill her!_" And a tidal force of destruction magic surged up toward the dais as a bolt of lightning slammed into the podium to my right.

Still clutching the book and the dagger, I hurled myself over the far side of the dais. But even as I jumped, I knew there was no easy way to fall. I tried to take the brunt of it on my shoulder and roll, but I still felt sharp pain in my elbow and knee as I scrambled up. Touching the sleeve of my robe, my fingers came away bloody. I grimaced. Wonderful.

But there was a sound like thunder, like a tearing of stone. I looked up in horror to see the statue of Mehrunes Dagon swaying—and then crumble, falling forward in pieces. Right towards the crowd. The ground was shaking, and I could help but feel a twist in my stomach as the shrieks rang out. There were cries of fear and pain rising up—a horrible parallel to the Kvatch camp. "Out!" someone was calling. "Everybody out! Now! Leave them, you can't help them now!"

An enormous split had appeared up the side of the dais, and I quickly began making my way around to the other side, as silently as I could. As I rounded the corner to the side the stairs were, I saw dozens of red robes running up them. And then I was forced to dive out of the way as another bolt of blue lighting crackled past me. Ruma Camoran stood there, wielding a staff, and her face was contorted with fury.

"You!" she shouted. "_You _did this!" Another bolt, but I returned it with blast of flames. The spell short forth much stronger than I had anticipated, and she actually gave a small shriek as she darted out of the way. But then I was upon her, and I drove the dagger into her neck.

Her eyes immediately went wide, glazing over as she fell. "_Ruma!_" I heard someone screech as she pawed at her neck, only to have her hands go limp. I sent a spray of flames at the man in conjured armor rushing toward us, and to my surprise, he fell within seconds. Why was my magic so powerful all of a sudden? Another woman fell on me as I approached the stairs, but I got her with the dagger. She hadn't conjured any armor, I realized as she fell. "Paradise awaits me," she gurgled. I took in her wide brown eyes and felt the tiniest stab of regret. She was young. She'd probably only been an initate.

But I felt nothing but triumph when I caught sight of a familiar shock of black hair from beneath one of the fallen pillars. Harrow. Fortunately, the bag with my belongings wasn't trapped, and I was able to tug it free before sprinting up the stairs.

The destruction of the shrine had allowed me to make a clean escape from the antechamber, but as I fled through the tunnels, more and more cultists appeared. I ended up tossing the dagger aside, clutching the Mysterium Xarxes and my bag in one arm and blasting the cultists out of the way with the other. The power was almost dizzying as it shot through me, and when I glanced down at my casting hand, the palm was reddened and the fingertips were beginning to blister.

I had cut my way through the tunnels and was headed toward the entrance when one more stepped out in front of me. But as I prepared the flames, he surprised me by raising his hands in supplication. "No! Don't! Please!" He threw back his hood to reveal the sacrifice I'd cut loose. I froze, and then lowered my hand.

"Are you all right?" I asked slowly. He nodded, and I caught a real glance at his. Bruising was evident beneath the swelling scales under his eyes.

"I found a set of robes. Everyone's been running right past me." He gave me a sharp look. "I can not even comprehend the path you've chosen, but you saved my life, and so I will return the favor. You do not want to go out there." He gestured toward the cave entrance. "There's something out there. Whenever anyone exits, there are screams, and then silence." It only took me a moment to comprehend what he was talking about.

"I'm an agent of the Emperor. I was under orders to infiltrate the shrine and retrieve this." I gestured toward the Mysterium Xarxes. "I assure you, I am no friend of the Mythic Dawn. And there are Imperial agents outside with orders to kill on sight." He frowned, but his posture relaxed slightly. "Do you have a name?"

"Jeelius. I'm a priest at the Temple of the One."

I nodded. "A priest. I know a priest." I sighed, and turned toward the entrance. "Follow me and stay silent. As we approached the opening, I raised my voice and called out. "What is the music of life?"

There was a pause, and then a growled-out response. "Silence, my sister." We stepped out into the fading light, and I blinked in surprise.

"By the Nine." Red robes were scattered in every direction, even some, I could see, across the lake. N'ohbody raised his eyebrows.

"We did our job," he said bluntly. "Who's the prisoner?" I glanced back at Jeelius, who was staring at the assassin suspiciously.

"He was a hostage. We'll discuss him in a minute." I stepped forward and waved to Caius, just barely visible on his ledge. He nodded and began to scramble down. "Arquen!" I called. I could see the shadows shift slightly beyond the lake, and I gestured her over.

As they made their way to us, I finally set the Mysterium Xarxes down, and it was though I was relieved of a burden I didn't know I was carrying. At the same time, though, I felt weakened, as though drained of my life's energy. Frowning down at the book, I suddenly realized that it was probably responsible for my inexplicably increased magicka. No surprise, though, that it would come at a cost.

When Arquen and Caius arrived, I drew my Sister and Brothers into a tight huddle. "Good work, everybody. I trust they didn't give you any trouble." N'ohbody snorted, and I couldn't help but smile briefly as I continued. "N'ohbody, that man I brought out is a priest at the Temple of the One. You're going to escort him back there, then report back to the Sanctuary. He thinks you're an Imperial agent. Let him continue thinking that." He nodded.

"Sithis be with you," he murmured.

"And with you." He slipped out of the huddle, and I heard him speaking to the priest. "Arquen, as we've discussed, you have your orders. Do you have my pack?" She held it out, and I withdrew the packet of parchment I'd written back at the Sanctuary.

"I wrote down more specific instructions," I told her, glancing over it one last time before handing it over. Written instructions, as I'd learned, were a method to be approached with caution. "They also explain how to find me if there's any problem." She nodded, but I could sense her hesitation.

"Listener, with your permission…" she began, her scar darkening as blood flooded to her face.

"Go on." I frowned. She was never this nervous around me, not even in the beginning. She'd been tentative then, but she'd also been angry; even so, we'd come to an understanding in recent months.

"I would like to name Caius my Silencer." She winced slightly, and I understood where her apprehension was coming from. The last person to bear the title of Silencer had been me, and that dysfunctional relationship had been instrumental in bringing the Brotherhood to its knees.

"He's been a great asset to the Sanctuary," she continued. "And this won't be an easy task. I could use his help." I could feel the scowl cross my face, but what she said made sense. Besides, she was right there in the Sanctuary, they consistently had face-to-face interaction, they were on good terms…

I felt myself beginning to nod. "You have my permission." Her face remained stoic, but I saw the light dance across her eyes as she turned to him.

"Caius Bolar, I hereby promote you to Silencer," she said, a cold ring of authority in her tone.

"It is an honor, Speaker. I accept," he replied. He glanced down, but I saw the smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. And like that, another small part of the Brotherhood was restored. A new chapter within a new volume entirely.

And after they'd said their goodbyes and crossed the lake, I quickly dressed back in my real clothing, wrapping the Mysterium Xarxes in the bag my possessions had been in. I wasn't sure what it was exactly, but there was something about it that made it dangerous to have on my person. I glanced at my burned hand ruefully. So much for Oleta's skillful healing job.

But as I whistled for Shadowmere, I glanced around at the fallen cultists. The thought crossed my mind that the friendly doorkeeper was among them, but I was too afraid to search and find out. It was odd that I should feel so strongly about this after all the murders I myself had committed over the years. This was an act of war, not of malice. One could argue that is was certainly more noble, but dead was dead. And as I mounted Shadowmere, I pondered whether us mortals could possibly be saved, when we were so intent on dooming ourselves.


	40. Chapter 37: Bringing the Hammer Down

Chapter 37: Bringing the Hammer Down

It was in the wee hours of the next morning when I finally reached Cloud Ruler Temple. I identified myself at the gates, and then rode Shadowmere straight up the stairs. The Blade waiting at the stable stared at us in astonishment as we scaled the final step. "She climbed that _willingly?_" he asked, eyebrows disappearing up beneath his helmet. "It took us an _hour _to get the others up here." He jerked a thumb toward the stable behind him, where the gentle paint was sticking his head out inquisitively, a tuft of hay hanging out of his mouth. I couldn't help but smile a little as I dismounted, thinking of the conversation I'd had with Martin about mountain climbing.

"Sometimes I think she does things just for the sake of proving that she can," I said as I slipped the reins over her head. "She's got a mind of her own."

"I can take her for you," he offered as I led her inside, but I shook my head.

"She bites," I sighed as I loosened her girth. As if to prove my point, she whipped her head around, and I was forced to shove her muzzle away. "And she's not in a particularly good mood at the moment." He nodded, and turned to resume his patrol.

I managed to unsaddle her without losing any chunks of flesh, as her temperament seemed to improve dramatically. I sighed, noting how she began affectionately nuzzling my arm as soon as the Mysterium Xarxes was removed from her saddlebags. It would seem it had an effect on animals as well as people.

Slinging my pack over my shoulder, I exited the stables and strode across the courtyard, stifling a yawn as I did so. The eastern sky was just slightly beginning to pale, but I knew true sunrise wouldn't come for several more hours. I was dead on my feet as I slugged through the doors to the Temple's main hall, determined to thaw out by the fire before finding Jauffre and getting some sleep; although it was only early Hearthfire, it was cold all year-round when you were this high in the mountains. The hall was eerily empty, but I spotted a familiar grey-robed figure hunched over at a table at the far end.

As I approached, Martin straightened up and smiled. "You've returned," he greeted brightly. It was a rather unusual shift in attitude for him; he'd been so dour during my time with him. "Jauffre was beginning to grow worried."

"He worries for a living," I reasoned mildly, leaning up against the side of the table. Martin smiled, but I noticed his eyes were tired.

"True," he agreed. "Just the same, though. I'm sure he'll be glad to know you've returned." Then before I had the chance to ask, "He's asleep right now, but he should be up in a few hours."

I nodded. "How have things been here?" I asked. "Have you been…" I shrugged, not sure of how to phrase it. "Adjusting all right?"

He sighed, leaning forward to rub his blood-shot eyes. "I suppose." He glanced up at me, and a hint of the bitter priest I'd met in Kvatch flickered across his face. "To tell you the truth, it…hasn't been easy." He grimaced slightly. "Not that I mean to complain, of course. Everyone here's been extremely accommodating. But that's just the problem." His face almost wore an expression of pleading. "Everything is 'Yes, my lord' and 'Of course, sire.' Everyone treads on eggshells around me. Everyone addresses me as Emperor. I feel like a supervised child." He shook his head, the corners of his mouth twisting. "But the worst is—" He cut himself off abruptly, though, at the sound of a door creaking open.

"Well, well, well." A storm-faced Baurus limped into the room, and I groaned inwardly. "Look who finally decided to make an appearance."

"Hello, Baurus." I pushed away from the table, standing stiffly at attention. "I'm glad to see you made it here safely." But he only glared at me.

"Yes. But it seems unlike my body, my mind is falling apart." His voice dripped with sarcasm. "I _thought _I remembered you agreeing to send word of the shrine's location so a Blade could go take care of it. But instead, Jauffre receives a message that says you know where the Amulet is, but you're not telling where. And you'regoing to go get it yourself."

"I said I would let Jauffre know if I discovered anything. Which I did," I pointed out. He crossed his arms over his chest.

"Then where is it?" he asked pointedly. "Where's the Amulet of Kings? Let's put it around the Emperor's neck right now."

"Baurus, calm down." Martin tried to intercede, but the Blade was furious and my temper was also rising fast.

"I don't have it. Which I need to talk to Jauffre about, so if you'll excuse me…" I began inching away, determined to go find the Grandmaster and drag him from his bed if it meant avoiding this conversation with Baurus.

"WHAT?" He roared so loudly I expected the entire Temple to come running in. "You lost it _again_?" He started toward me with murder in his eyes. "This is why a Blade was supposed to take care of this! Need I point out, this is the _third time _the Amulet has been lost because of _you!_"

"Well I certainly didn't anticipate _Mankar Camoran himself _being there!" I shot back, my voice rising. Baurus paused for a moment, his brow furrowing, but I continued. "And if I'd waited for a Blade, it might have been too late to recover _this!_" And I dumped the Mysterium Xarxes out onto the table.

Martin shot up out of his seat so fast my hand automatically went to my weapon. "_What is that?_" he asked tightly. "Is that…"

"The Mysterium Xarxes," I finished tentatively.

"_Back!_" he shouted in a voice to rival Baurus'. "Both of you, _back up_!" We both did as requested, exchanging a worried glance over his head, our animosity forgotten. "I need ink. Chalk. Something!" he snapped. "Baurus, get me something! Now!" The Blade darted across the room to a shelf, and hurried back with an ink pot. He and I both watched with a somewhat horrified fascination as Martin snatched it from him and dunked his finger in it, drawing a series of bizarre symbols around the Xarxes onto the table itself. When he completed the circle, he sagged back down in his chair, closing his eyes with a ragged sigh.

"Are you all right?" I asked in a small voice. His eyes flew open and he was out of his chair in an instant, grasping me by the upper arms.

"Are _you_ all right?" He peered intently into my face. "You're not hurt are you?"

I wriggled away uncomfortably. "Yes, I'm fine! Let go of me!"

He did as requested, but continued to stare at me. "By the Nine, such a thing is dangerous to even handle! What were you thinking?" he snapped, rage filling his features. I inhaled slowly, trying to rein in my temper. He may have spoken to me colloquially, but for all intents and purposes, this man was now the Emperor.

"Forgive me, _sire_," I replied stiffly, putting a little extra emphasis on the last word out of spite. "I was wrong to interfere." And I spun on my heel and stalked toward the west wing. But to my surprise he hurried after me, planting himself directly in my way.

"No—forgive me." His voice dropped to a whisper. "You were right to bring it to me. But I know of this book. Its corrupting power is terrible." I thought of Shadowmere's excessively vicious behavior, and of my burned hand hidden beneath my glove. "I know ways to protect myself, though. And this may be the key to unlocking Mankar Camoran's secrets. I'm guessing he disappeared through a portal? Along with the Amulet?" I nodded, and he sighed.

"As expected. I'll have to talk to Jauffre about this when he awakes. And I didn't mean to upset you." He leaned in closer, glancing over my shoulder in a way that suggested Baurus was staring intently. "I know he means well, but he hasn't left my side for more than a few minutes, and his guilt is _tangible_. You're one of very few people I can actually _talk_ to. The last thing I want to do is isolate you."

His subtle pleading was disconcerting, and only served to magnify my own guilt. I swallowed a lump in my throat. "I'm the one who should be sorry. I was rude." I sighed. "In my defense, I am very tired. I reacted harsher than intended." He nodded, the clear concern in his eyes making me feel worse than ever.

"Get some sleep. I'll fill Jauffre in on the situation when he awakes and we'll take it from there." I nodded gratefully as he smiled, and then he retreated across the hall as I slipped into the west wing and fell into the first empty bedroll I saw.

* * *

When I awoke, sunlight was streaming through the west windows. A few Blades were asleep down at the far end, I noted as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, but other than that, the room was empty. I quickly splashed water from a nearby basin over my face and stowed my pack safely in a corner before wandering out to the main hall.

But as soon as I entered, I actually stood still in shock at the sight before me. Martin sat at the table he'd been at when I'd arrived, surrounded by books, alchemy equipment, and other strange-looking apparatuses I didn't even have names for, along with several Blades buzzing curiously around him. One of them turned and waved me over, and to my surprise, it was Jauffre. Even in the short time I'd known him, I'd gotten used to seeing him in monk's robes—the Blades armor would take some getting used to. "I heard you had quite the adventure," he commented as I stepped up beside him.

"You could say that." I frowned, watching Martin furiously scribbling down notes. "I'm sorry I didn't wait for the Blades. I just wanted to get it taken care of as soon as possible. I didn't know Mankar Camoran would be there."

"Pay no attention to Baurus." He waved a hand dismissively. "No offense to you, of course, but it is good to see him turn some of that anger outwards for a change." I thought of my role in that situation and cringed inwardly. "But I do appreciate that you've taken such an initiative," he added. His dull brown eyes bored into my own. "I stand by what I said, you know." I shifted uncomfortably and glanced away. Thankfully, he changed the subject.

"Martin is working to translate the Mysterium Xarxes. He believes that this may help us figure out a way to get to Mankar Camoran's realm—his Paradise, as the Mythic Dawn call it."

"And I believe I've already made some progress." I jumped as Martin interjected. He'd appeared so focused on his notes I hadn't realized he'd been paying attention to our conversation. "I think I've identified a section that deals with opening a portal. I've learned that the Xarxes is both the gate and the key. In some sense, the book _is_ Camoran's Paradise." I blinked in confusion, but Jauffre's low chuckle let me know I wasn't alone.

"In the meantime, I've got a job for you. If you're interested, that is?"

"Absolutely. As I said, I'll do anything to help. Whatever you need." I still couldn't tear my gaze away from Martin. He was reading from one of the books now, his eyes skimming back and forth across the page so fast my head began to spin.

"I don't suppose you've reconsidered my offer, then?"

I sucked in a breath as I turned back to Jauffre. "No. Like I said, I think I'll be of more use working alone. I can accomplish more that way." I frowned. "Just ask Baurus." And at that, the Grandmaster actually laughed out loud, long and heartily. Even Martin let out a snicker as my face flamed.

"Despite the, shall we say, _friction _between the two of you, I actually believe you would get along rather well, given the chance." He shook his head, a hint of a smile still playing across his face. "Anyway. Back to business. The gate guards have reported seeing strangers on the road for the past several nights."

"Spies?" I asked with a frown.

"I believe so. Captain Steffan has reported seeing them near the runestone at dusk. Captain Burd in Bruma may also be able to help."

I understood. "I'll investigate."

He nodded approvingly. "Good. Before you go, though, I want you to report to the armory. Both Martin and Baurus have indicated that your armor may have…taken some damage recently." I could see an amused twinkle in his eye, and I once again felt my face reddening.

"I guess," I muttered. I lifted my gaze to his face. "But that that armor was one of a kind, and either way, it's all but unsalvageable now. I don't think your smith will be able to do anything about it."

"Perhaps not. I wouldn't expect it to be anything similar, but I asked him to design you a set. I want you to go have it fitted before you head out. Take your cuirass down with you, too. He can adjust that if it needs it."

"My cuirass?" For a moment I was confused, but then it dawned on me what he was talking about. "The Kvatch one—no. No, I can't wear that." I shook my head adamantly, but he was insistent.

"Chainmail will hold up a lot better than leather," he pointed out.

"But it's so _obvious_," I sighed. He stared at me shrewdly.

"You often wear robes over top of armor, do you not?" Despite myself, I rolled my eyes, but he leaned in close and spoke directly into my ear. "Wear it, Lily. If nothing else, to remind yourself of who you really are." He drew back, and spoke in normal volumes. "Besides, that's what they're calling you now. The Hero of Kvatch."

"_Seriously?_" I could feel myself shrink back a little in horror, but Jauffre and Martin both burst out laughing.

"Don't look so horrified. People look for figureheads in times of disaster. It gives them some hope," Jauffre reassured.

"Besides," Martin piped in. "There's a distinct rumor going around about a male Nord who fought the daedra back." He smirked. "No one actually knows who you are."

"That's a relief." I sighed. "I'll wear it," I relented, "but if anyone has the opportunity to gossip about Nord men and Oblivion Gates, _do it_." And they both broke out laughing once again as I retreated to find the cuirass.

The armory was located in the east wing, down a narrow little set of stairs and through an inauspicious wooden door. A Blade whose name I didn't know glanced up from a table littered with arrowheads as I entered. "Ah. The Hero of Kvatch herself." But unlike Jauffre, who'd snickered as he said the silly title, this Blade's brow furrowed into a scowl. I winced.

"Jauffre said to report to you." I decided to leave it at that, instead of straight up asking about the armor. He didn't look too happy to accommodate.

"Right, of course. Got to have your armor made _special_." He crossed over to a chest, hurling the lid open far harder than necessary and allowing it to bang against the stone wall. I gulped. The situation grew more uncomfortable by the moment, and it was only made worse by the close heat of the forge.

"Here." He dumped an armload of leather onto a workbench. "Your greaves are pretty standard. So are your boots, but I added a steel plate in the sole. Now your gauntlets." He held up a pair, and in the dim light, I saw a flicker of pride cross his face. "Jauffre said this was where you ran into trouble. The seams burnt away?" At my nod, he shook his head.

"I've rarely heard of that happening. Only seen it once myself. High concentrated heat can do that, though, so instead of thread, I stitched the seams with a hide lace. I actually did that with all the pieces. The gauntlets, though, actually borrow their design from blacksmiths' gloves, only I used armor-quality leather. And I added _another _layer of insulation." He actually did smile then, clearly pleased with his creation. "You could stick your hands in direct flame and you'd still be protected." I didn't bother to point out that I'd done exactly that, but the idea of doing so again caused my stomach to tighten.

"Jauffre said you prefer hoods over helmets, but that's fine. That'll protect you better against flame anyway. It's leather, a little larger than most, but you'll want it that way. Also insulated." He held up the final item, which resembled a leather shirt. "Jauffre also said you had a chainmail cuirass, but that'll heat, and trust me, you don't want chainmail burned into your skin. Wear this underneath and you'll be fine. Also, everything's been enchanted with a fire shield." Impressive. Actually, _really _impressive. But I found myself frowning as I crossed my arms over my chest.

"Surely there's a price tag attached to this." It was well-crafted, highly-specialized gear. But he only shrugged.

"Jauffre said to tell you it's taken care of. You wanna get suited up? Let's get this fitted."

"But _why _is it taken care of?" I insisted.

He sighed. "The Grandmaster said you may find yourself at the Gates of Oblivion again before this is over," he admitted as a cold hand closed over my heart. "He wanted you to be ready." Again? I might have to enter Oblivion _again_?

The thought plagued me as he fitted the armor, and for the rest of the afternoon as well. He hadn't mentioned that to me. Was that even a possibility? Martin was supposed to be safe here. The more time that wore on, the sicker I began to feel, and it was a relief to finally don my new armor and trek down the mountain to the runestone.

The further down the mountain I got, the darker it grew, as the mountains began to block what remained of the sun. It was cold, too. I shivered a little, wriggling my fingers and toes as best as I could in attempt to get some blood flowing into them, but it was difficult what with the heavy padding surrounding my fingers and the metal plates in my boots freezing my toes off. I sighed. If I really did end up facing Oblivion again, I would be grateful for the protection, but it was heavy and stiff, and I felt as though I was waddling along. Perhaps it would break in with time, but at the moment, I was seriously concerned with my mobility. And I knew my robe was muffling the jingling of the chainmail, but it still felt like I was announcing my arrival from a mile away.

As I approached the runestone, there appeared to be no sign of activity. The green script of the engraving was just beginning to glow softly in the fading light, and it was dead silent. I was about to turn toward the city to go and talk to the guard captain, but then I caught a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. Whipping around, I saw a figure sprinting off in the opposite direction, and I immediately gave chase.

But it was a struggle to run in the confining armor, and the figure was starting to weave through the trees. Aiming carefully, I sent the tiniest burst of electricity toward it. I could barely force the spell out through my glove, but it proved to be just enough. There was a small yelp, and the figure fell, giving me just enough time to catch up, huffing and puffing all the way.

I drew my sword as it scrambled to its feet, and I swung my leg forward with a powerful kick. Or at least it would have been powerful if it hadn't been muffled by my armor, but the steel plate seemed to make up for the decreased speed as there was a cracking sound as my foot caught its arm. She—I could now see it was a Dunmer woman—sprawled on her back, gasping out in pain as I placed my boot across her throat.

"I do not fear death," she hissed. Her features were contorted with pain—I'd probably broken her arm—but her eyes were glowing with defiance.

"No, you don't." I leaned down closer. "But you should be afraid of me." She tried to spit in my face, but gravity worked against her and she only ended up getting it in her eye. It might have been funny as her eyelid flickered frantically, but I was practically dying of nerves. Face-to-face interactions weren't my forte—that was a job for Speakers. "Do you have a name?"

"Saveri," she spat sourly. "Servant of Lord Dagon." What did I know of the Mythic Dawn? What did they value? There had to be some weakness here, a weakness I could exploit. Everybody wanted something, something they'd be willing to compromise their code of behavior for. Being Listener had taught me that much. Not their lives, I already knew that. Not personal gain either, judging from the way they lived and their eschewing of personal possessions. But the glory of Mehrunes Dagon? That was another matter altogether—that was something I could use.

I smiled down at her. "Saveri. I don't suppose offering you wealth or power would be enough to persuade you to help me?"

"Of course not," she hissed. "I am loyal to Lord Dagon!"

"That's what I thought." I moved my boot from her throat only to kneel beside her and replace it with my knee. "So I think we'll be able to help each other."

"You idiot," she snapped. "I'll never help you. So kill me now. Paradise awaits me."

"I'm not going to kill you." I dropped my voice to just above a whisper. "I'm here to help you." Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I suppose you know who I am?" I asked.

"You're an Imperial agent. You brought the Septim bastard here." At that comment, I tried not to let any flare of emotion betray me. They knew who Martin was, and they knew he was just up the hill. I nodded.

"I am. But I'm on your side." It had worked before, perhaps it would work again. It depended entirely on what she'd heard about what happened at the shrine, but given the Dark Brotherhood's efficiency, it was safe to bet that she was in the dark. They'd been wiped out.

"I doubt that," she said icily. But I shook my head.

"I was sent to infiltrate your cult. Only…" I sighed deeply. "After hearing the Master speak…at last I understood." And something in her eyes brightened at the mention of Mankar Camoran, letting me know I was on the right track. "'When I walk the earth again, the faithful among you shall receive their reward: to be set above all other mortals forever. As for the rest: the weak shall be winnowed, the timid shall be cast down, the mighty shall tremble at my feet and pray for pardon.'" I quoted what I'd remembered from the speech.

"I don't want to be winnowed, Saveri," I continued, letting a hint of panic leech into my tone. "I don't want to be cast down. The Blades speak of victory, but I was at Kvatch. I _saw_. I know there's no stopping Lord Dagon's invasion. At last, I see." I had removed my knee from her throat, and I knelt beside her instead. She slowly sat up, and her eyes were gleaming with excitement. I was giving her something too valuable to ignore: a convert. And not just a convert: a sleeper agent within Cloud Ruler Temple itself.

"But my position with the Blades is too advantageous to give up, and I need to play along for now. They know we're watching," I continued, carefully adjusting my use of pronouns. "I need to give them _something_, or they'll begin to suspect me." She began to nod, and I knew I'd won her over. There was the catch; without it, the situation was too good to be true.

"I have a partner," she said, also speaking in hushed tones. "If Jearl—or even myself, of course—were to turn up dead…" She sighed. "The Blades would be satisfied, and Paradise awaits us."

"Excellent." I killed her as she rose to her feet, before she even had a chance to realize what was happening.

* * *

I hadn't been active in the Guild for years, but a handful of coins and the Grey Fox's name were enough to convince a beggar to tell me where Jearl's house was. The street was mostly empty, and I was able to pick the lock and slip inside before the next guard patrol strolled past. Jearl was obviously expecting Saveri, as she only glanced up once I was halfway across the room, and I killed her before she had a chance to summon her armor. As I stood over her body, I suddenly remembered what Vicente had said all those years ago about me having a penchant for death, and I grimly wondered if there was some truth to my old mentor's words after all.

My search of the house itself proved futile, but when I noted Jearl's blood running in a certain direction along the floor, I swept aside the blood-soaked rug to uncover a trapdoor. And when I dropped down into it, I discovered a dormitory-style chamber—not unlike the ones in the Sanctuaries. It was empty, but it would have easily housed a full Mythic Dawn task force. There was a door that led to a cave, but I sealed it off by piling furniture in front of it. At least they wouldn't be able to enter the city that way. And I was about to move a table when I discovered the letter.

_Jearl—_

_The Master was pleased to hear of your activities outside of Chorrol. The more gates that we open, the nearer we are to the glorious Cleansing._

_The Master has chosen you and Saveri for a most crucial mission, a sign of your advancement through the ranks of the Chosen. We have learned that the Septim heir has gone to ground at Cloud Ruler Temple, the lair of the accursed Blades. The Master has made its destruction the top priority of the Order, and Lord Dagon has committed whatever resources are required._

_Pending your report on the Septim's activities at Cloud Ruler Temple, and your assessment of Temple defenses and possible routes of escape, we plan to open a Great Gate in the open ground before Bruma as soon as possible._

_Remember: the first three Lesser Gates represent only the preliminary stages of Great Gate Deployment. Do not in any way compromise your cover in defense of these gates. New ones can be quickly and easily reopened. And once the Great Gate is opened, the fall of Bruma is assured. Cloud Ruler Temple cannot stand long after that, and the Septim will be caught like a rat in a trap._

_We would welcome any further details you can offer concerning the Imperial agent who rescued Martin from Kvatch, but again, we caution you... do not risk a confrontation. This individual is not to be trifled with._

_The Dawn is breaking._

_Ruma Camoran_

I groaned as I quickly finished the barricade. So not just two sleeper agents, but the entirety of the Mythic Dawn knew about Martin—and were planning a full scale attack on the city. Like Kvatch. I swallowed back the fear as the memories surfaced. It probably wouldn't come to that. The massacre at the shrine had wiped out a good many of their numbers. They wouldn't be able to pull it off. But then I exited Jearl's house—and was greeted by the red sky of Oblivion.

My legs began to tremble, forcing me to grip the porch railing as every muscle in my body quivered. The adrenaline was painful as it seared through my veins, pumping at least twice the normal rate. No. It was impossible. Oblivion had arrived, it was coming for Martin, it was coming for _me_…

My head throbbed as I tried to push through the ache. I had to calm down. Breathe. It was an Oblivion gate, but the Mythic Dawn _had_ been weakened. What had Ruma's note said? If it was closed now, there would be no Great Gate. No siege. No destroyed city. No refugee camp. It was an Oblivion Gate. It had opened only in the past half hour or so. There weren't hoards of daedra running past, so the walls hadn't been breached. It was an Oblivion Gate. And I was the damn Hero of Kvatch.

I shrugged out of my robe, stuffing it in my pack before heading toward the city gates, breaking into an awkward waddling jog as I did so. A guard tried to block my way as I did so. "Stand back, civilian," he snapped, but then he caught sight of my cuirass. "Gods' blood…you're not…"

I sighed. _Damn you, Jauffre._ "Yes. Please let me through. I can help." And he miraculously stood aside.

Outside was like a scene from a nightmare. Yellow-clad guards were rushing to and fro hacking and slicing at daedra. There were shrieks of scamps, cries of the soldiers, and above it all, that steady, ominous hum from the Gate itself. Steeling myself, I hurried forward over the corpses and the rocky terrain to address the tall, grey-haired Nord who appeared to be barking orders.

"Captain Burd?" He glanced at me absently for a moment before turning back to the battlefield, but the last of the wave was being cut down. He turned back to me.

"You're the one from Cloud Ruler Temple, aren't you? The one who closed the Kvatch Gate."

I nodded. "Captain, we've got to get this Gate closed. I can do it, but if you send some of your men in with me, I can show them how. I may not always be here, and we've received some information that they may try again."

He sighed as he nodded, but I instantly saw the difference between him and Matius. Burd lacked Matius' _heaviness_—although it made sense. He was already Captain of the Guard, he hadn't lost any men yet, and his city was still standing. That could change, however, if we didn't act now.

The soldiers were beginning to cluster around. "All right, boys!" he shouted. "Listen up. That Gate needs to be closed, and we're going to go in there and do it. I don't like the idea of it any more than you, but this is our city, and I'll be damned if it ends up a smoking pile of rubble like Kvatch!" There were several shouts of agreement, and he continued.

"Bor. Soren. The two of you are going into the Gate with me and the Hero of Kvatch here. The rest of you stay and kill anything that comes out of that Gate!" There was a chorus of 'yes, sirs,' and then he turned to me and the other two soldiers who had stepped forward. "All right, this is it. Let's show these bastards how we do things in Bruma!"

And then they were running forward, right at the Gate, and I had no choice but to follow. It drew nearer and nearer, coming up on me at a dizzying speed. There was no turning back. And then my boots were once again buried in the ash as I walked a plane not meant for mortal feet.

The second time was no better than the first. However, it was reassuring to have Burd and the others along with me, although the flickering orange light painted all our faces as ghastly as any dremora's. We didn't talk as we fought our way through, although at times I would call attention to various aspects of the plane, such as the identification of the Sigil Tower and the symmetry of the design.

When we reached the top of the Sigil Keep, I had to shout to be heard over its shriek. "All you do is grab it and pull it free, but you have to be wearing the right gauntlets!" And I prayed that mine would hold up as I leaned across the gap.

I could feel the heat searing through, but there was no pain as Burd yanked me back just before the flame column exploded. I could see the other two soldiers beginning to panic as the tower collapsed. "No!" I screamed at them. "Get down!" And then the blinding whiteness came. I opened my eyes to see the walls of Bruma just before a chunk of stone slammed into my head and I knew no more.

* * *

"I should follow my own advice." It was my first thought upon awaking, but I realized I'd spoken out loud when the sound of stifled laughter followed.

"You're awake." The face that loomed above me belonged to one of the Blades—Jena, I was fairly certain her name was. I was back in the living quarters at Cloud Ruler Temple.

"We closed the Gate."

"You did indeed," she confirmed. "Captain Burd's men showed up here with you an hour ago."

"Bruma's safe." My eyes flickered shut, only to shoot back open. "My pack. Where's my pack? My robes are in there, and there's something in the pocket that Jauffre needs to see…" My tongue was growing numb, and the world gave a shudder as I sat up, blurring before my eyes. I was forced to clumsily lower myself as I willed the room to stop spinning.

"I'll give it to him." Jena's voice seemed so far away. "Lie still. Achille will take a look at you tomorrow." I tried to nod, but my head felt so heavy, I had to talk to Jauffre, he needed to know Martin wasn't safe…

* * *

When I awoke again, the Temple's Restoration expert looked me over and proclaimed there to be no permanent damage. I was finally then permitted to bathe, scrubbing away the soot and ash. After I dressed, I wandered out into the main hall, which was empty—save for Martin, still hunched over his books, and Baurus, leaning against the wall.

"She lives." Martin looked up and smiled as I approached, but something about his expression seemed troubled. "I heard what happened. I could see the sky from here." His face darkened, and I frowned.

"Well, it's taken care of now, and the good men of the Bruma Watch know how to handle it if there's another." I paused. "I take it you've been informed of the situation?"

He nodded wearily. "Yes. Jauffre's been in a fit over it all morning. It's clear that it's more imperative than ever that we decipher the ritual, but I've made some more progress."

"Oh?" He smiled for real this time, and motioned me over.

"I don't suppose you understand Daedric runes?" he asked as I leaned over his shoulder. When I shook my head, he elaborated. "There are four items need for the ritual. This section right here," his finger trailed down the page, "refers to the 'eyes of Padhome.' It's an obscure reference, but it can loosely be interpreted as the blood of Daedra."

"Blood of a Daedra?" I asked doubtfully. "How are we supposed to get _that_?"

"I asked myself the same thing, but 'blood' can also be interpreted as 'essence.'" He wore a triumphant smile, and his eyes had the same gleam Matius' had as we'd stormed back into Kvatch. "And the easiest place to find this on Nirn?"

"Daedric artifacts," I answered immediately. "Formed from the Daedra's power itself."

"Exactly." He grinned brightly, happier than I'd ever seen him, but it quickly faded. "It won't be an easy thing to come by, though. Not many know the location of Daedric shrines." And it may have been my imagination, but he appeared to swallow uncomfortably. "And Daedric Princes…" He sighed. "They have a particular way of tormenting mortals."

A thought occurred to me then, and quickly blossomed into an idea. "You know," I said slowly. "I may know someone who would be able to find a shrine." His eyebrows arced skeptically.

"You have Daedra-worshiper friends?" he asked, some unidentifiable emotion heavy in his tone. I shook my head.

"No," I said, "but I know someone who would know where to look." I stood up quickly. "I'm going to leave for bit. If all goes as planned, I'll have your Daedric artifact when I return." He opened his mouth to protest, but I had already turned away, hurrying to the west wing to gather my belongings and prepare for the journey.


	41. Chapter 38: Because You Left

**A/N: Hi, everyone! I am so, so sorry it took me so long to get this out. I was swamped with thesis deadlines in addition to regular coursework, and then I was distracted my birthday - I'm 21 now! And for those of you outside the U.S. who don't understand the significance, this means I can now legally drink!**

**Anyhow, on to the story. I've been really excited for this chapter, because we get to see the return of a character who's been gone for (in my opinion) far too long. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you...**

* * *

Chapter 38: Because You Left

_Ichabod_

Ichabod cursed in frustration as the spell failed, spilling out words that would make his mother turn over in her grave had she heard them. He had been struggling with it all week, but had made little progress. Today, he had told himself, would be different. He arrived at the practice rooms early, and had secured the corner target, hoping the privacy would help him focus. But it was well past noon now, his stomach was growling, and he had not successfully cast the spell once.

Pushing a sweat-drenched lock of hair off of his forehead, he stepped away from the target, exhaling slowly. A couple of Apprentice girls glanced his way and giggled, then returned to tossing around flash bolts. He rolled his eyes in spite of himself, and considered heading back downstairs to ask the Proctor about it. It wouldn't do very much good, though. He had spent the past week arguing with the man. "_You understand the concepts just fine,_" he would insist. "_But you have to _want _the spell to succeed. You have to _make _it happen_."

Sighing, he turned back to the target. Stretching out his arm, he spoke the incantation, concentrating all of his effort on the spot in front of him. Specks of orange began to appear, forming a thicker cloud. Sweat droplets formed on his upper lip, and his casting arm began to tremble slightly as power surged through it. _I'm actually doing it…_ The portal was complete, but he was meeting resistance. He struggled against it, but he was losing control fast. Fighting harder, he could make out a dark figure beginning to form in the center. _Almost there…_ And then the portal collapsed, disappearing without a trace. He slumped against the wall, defeated. "_You're never going to make Magician if you can't summon a Kynval," _he heard Master Polus saying. But he was trying—no, he was _fighting. _He was fighting tooth and nail, and he still wasn't seeing any results.

Honditar had died early in Morning Star, shortly after the New Life celebration. He had buried his father in the Chorrol graveyard, laying him to rest beside his wife. But even so, it had felt wrong somehow, confining his remains within the city, the place he had hated his entire life. He had sent word to Cielya, who sent word back that she would come "as soon as she could." When she finally made the journey, it was nearly Sun's Height—right before he was to take his Conjurer exam. For a week, she puttered about their father's house, making meals, cleaning, and generally just fussing over him while he sat at the table surrounded by his books, desperately trying to study. Somehow, though, he had made it. He had passed the exam, and Cielya had gone back to Summerset Isle to be with her new husband—and to give birth to their first child.

Just last week, he had received the news that he was now an uncle. His nephew had been named Honditar, after his grandfather. And he should have been thrilled. He really should have been. But somehow, the news had barely touched him. All he could do was toss the letter into a drawer and return to his studies. All he wanted was to make Magician. But now, as he leaned up against the wall of his practice nook, he realized he simply didn't care. At all. He was devoting himself to it with everything he had, but he didn't even want it. And that was why he couldn't summon the Kynval.

He strode past the Apprentice girls brusquely, eliciting a gasp from one as he roughly brushed against her. Down the stairs, out the door, through the gates, and he just kept walking. It was a bright, beautiful afternoon in late summer, but he barely even noticed as he crossed the bridge, a speck of blue against the stone and the rocky landscape.

He only slowed his gait once he was safe within the walls of the Arboretum. There, he finally drew in a deep breath as he wandered among the trees and the statues of the Divines. The shadows were long and cool, and as the brisk breeze ruffled his hair, he could almost taste a hint of autumn in the air. Almost, he though wryly, as it would probably be stiflingly hot tomorrow. And probably for the rest of the week. Growing up in the foothills of the Jeralls, he'd assumed that when the weather turned, it turned for good. His first couple years in the City had quickly corrected that notion, though.

Even now, he could feel sweat trickling down his back. His robes were far too heavy to wear in the summer, even if they were the reason people nodded politely in his direction and stepped out of his way as he approached. Arch-mage Traven himself had handed him the neatly-folded bundle after his Conjurer exam. It had been exciting, he supposed, to finally wear the blue, marking him as a fully-fledged member of the Guild. But his days as a student were far from over, and if he never summoned the Kynval, it wouldn't matter either way.

He stepped off the path and slumped against a tree, the rough grain of the bark pressing into his forehead. Did it matter at all, even now? He closed his eyes with a sigh, wishing he could just meld through the bark, to become part of the tree itself. The sun, rain and soil would give him all that he'd need; all he'd have to worry about was standing tall and proud, smiling down on those that walked below him. Or that some brute would come along with an ax and chop him down.

He opened his eyes, catching sight of something reddish-brown flecked with white at his feet. He bent and tugged free the mushroom. Fly amanita. A common plant, native to the Great Forest. Mostly known for its property of agility restoration and its burdening effect, it also had its usefulness in healing potions. The earthy scent hit his nose, causing his nostrils to flare, and he allowed it to fall from his grasp. He'd given up alchemy, he realized. How long ago had that happened?

With a sigh, he pulled away from the tree and continued walking. He honestly couldn't remember. Around the time he'd become a Journeyman, perhaps? Before then? After? He sighed again, stifling a mirthless laugh as he realized just how messed up he'd become. His career was failing, his interests had been abandoned, and everyone he'd loved was gone. And the worst part was that he couldn't seem to care about it.

He returned to the University somehow feeling worse than when he'd left, although it was more of a subdued kind of lowness. He trudged back up the stairs to the practice rooms, even though he found himself asking why he was even bothering as he did so. He was, however, pleased to see that his favorite target hadn't been taken, and the Apprentice girls had left. He took up a deep breath and began casting the spell.

It was only maybe half an hour later, as he sagged back from another failed attempt, that he heard the sound of a throat being cleared. He turned to see a young Dunmer standing there, looking on tentatively. "Can I help you?" he asked, wincing a bit at the iciness of his own tone. As a junior mage, he'd always rolled his eyes at haughty high-ranking members who thought they were too good to breathe the same air as him. Clearly the Dunmer felt the same way, as he tugged uncomfortably at the collar of his green robes.

"Master Bothiel sent me to find you. She said there's someone here to see you."

"Oh?" Ichabod arched an eyebrow dubiously. He hadn't been expecting anyone.

"She's waiting for you in the lobby." And with that, the Dunmer turned and exited the room.

Ichabod collected himself and left the room, questions swirling through his head as he crossed the courtyard. He wasn't expecting anyone on business, so it had to be personal. Who, though? It wasn't as though he had many people left. Back when Honditar had been alive, he would have assumed it was his father, but the boy had clearly said "she." Who could that be, then? Cielya? But she was still on Summerset Isle _and_ she had just given birth; either way, dropping in unannounced really wasn't her style. Dar-Ma? He snorted at that thought. They hadn't spoken in years.

He opened the door to the tower, and was instantly enveloped by cool semi-darkness. And there in the corner stood a figure, her back to him as she examined one of the displays. He frowned as he stepped closer. Dark robes, slightly above-average height, dark red hair neatly gathered at the nape of her neck. A faint memory stirred, but there was no way…

And then she turned around, and he nearly died of shock. "Ichabod." Nine Divines. "Goodness, it's really you." She was smiling at him, but her face practically swam before his vision.

"Lily." He forced the name out over his thick tongue. It was her. It was really _her_. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you." She stepped forward, but, he noticed, her smile seemed nervous. "Your hair's so _long _now. I almost didn't recognize you." He self-consciously ran a hand over it; true, in his years on his own, he'd taken to letting it grow out longer than his mother would have ever allowed, and it now brushed past his collar

"And looked at your robes!" she continued. "You're what—a Conjurer now?" He nodded slowly as an even wider smile broke out on her face.

"Congratulations," she said, and he could have sworn her eyes were slightly misty. "Living the dream now, hmm? What did you end up studying?" Her questions were inoffensive, her manner friendly. But still, somehow seeing her again was awakening the anger that had laid dormant over the years.

"Conjuration," he replied shortly. "Look, Lily what are you _doing _here?" Her smile disappeared. "That last time I saw you, you called me…what was it again? A stuck up, high and mighty snob with cheap parlor tricks? And _then _I'm pretty sure you told me I could go straight to Oblivion." Her lips were tightly pursed, and her head was bowed. For a moment, she stood in silence, but then she lifted her head and met his gaze straight on.

"Yes. I was angry, and I said some unkind things. It was incredibly unfair of me." Then, to his surprise, a flare of anger crossed her face as well. "But maybe try to consider it from my perspective, just for a moment. You're eighteen years old, you're living on the streets, and you have no future. And then your best friend—a protégé at the Arcane University, everything you want to be but never will—announces himself an expert on hardship and suffering." Her voice was rising, quivering with emotion. The words burned as they pricked under his skin, but her eyes were flaring angrily—and there was something _wrong_ about them. And suddenly, that bothered him even more than her words.

"Did you come here to tell me off over a four-year old argument?" he asked through clenched teeth, crossing his arms. "Because if so, I think we have nothing left to say to each other. The door's right there." Her face was turning bright red, and he noticed her jaw tightening as well, but then her eyes flickered shut and she exhaled deeply.

"No." Her voice went flat, quiet. "No. Let's just forget about it," she muttered. She still wasn't looking at him, and he was only more confused than ever. "I came here to ask you for a favor."

"A _favor_?" he demanded. This day only got more bizarre by the moment, and his head was beginning to pound. She couldn't _do _this. She couldn't just _say _that to him and then _disappear_. He'd spent a year worrying after her, a year of hurt, of confusion over what he'd done wrong, of checking the guard reports for news of a body matching her description. And finally, after a year of turmoil, he'd decided she was dead. Locked her away in a box in his head and threw away the key. He'd moved on with his life. And now, out of _nowhere_, she'd appeared again. Appeared and begun making _demands. _And she just couldn't _do _that. He wouldn't _let _her.

"_No_." The word burst from his throat with the force of a shout, and he barely managed to stifle it. "No! I don't care what it is. I don't know what you've gotten yourself mixed up in, and I don't _want _to know? Do you hear me? Out! Get _out_!" And his throat had gone ragged as he panted at her through a red haze, a trembling finger aimed toward the door.

She was staring at him, her expression a mixture of disbelief and anger. The very look he was certain he'd worn that day she'd chewed him out in the streets. But then something in her face darkened, and he only had a fraction of a second's warning before she sprung.

The pillar behind him slammed into his back, forcing the air out of his lungs. He would have gasped out, trying to draw more in, but she had a grip on his collar, twisting it so it tightened across his throat. "_Damn it_, Ichabod," she hissed. Despite their difference in height, his feet had caught on the rug, and so her face was inches from his own. To his utter shock, tears were spilling from her eyes, but he finally figured out what was wrong with them. He distinctly remembered her eyes being green—not the light amber they were now.

"This isn't _about _you and me." Despite the tears, her voice was steady. "I came to _you_ because I thought you could_ help_. We're under a damned invasion from _Oblivion itself_, in case you hadn't noticed." The last words spilled out bitterly, and she roughly released him.

The air had never felt so good rushing into his lungs as he straightened up and adjusted his collar. "It's not an _invasion_," he snapped back in retort. "The Arch-mage doesn't know what caused the attacks, but he's launching a formal investigation and we're under orders to go about business as usual." But his heart had begun to pick up its pace. The Arch-mage _had _said as much—but he wasn't entirely convinced. The Black Horse Courier reports had been the only indication otherwise, however, and he'd always found them terribly sensationalized.

Her eyebrows rose as she stared him down. "It's an invasion, all right," she said flatly. "A Daedric army in service to Mehrunes Dagon blasted its way through Kvatch and there are plans in place to do the same to Bruma."

"How do you know this?" He could feel his chest constricting, a dark tendril of fear snaking through him. He shouldn't believe her this easily. He should call for a battlemage to escort her out. But her affirmation of his suspicion was cutting through the haze that had surrounded him for so long, and suddenly he wanted to hear her out.

"I was there," she muttered. He could feel his own eyebrows rising, but she was speaking again before he could press further. "But there's a way to stop it, and for that, I need a Daedric artifact.

"A Daedric artifact?" he asked slowly. Never taking his eyes from her, he sat down on a nearby bench. "What kind of Daedric artifact?" He paused. "Most importantly, what are you planning on _doing_ with it?"

She followed suit, settling across from him. "Destroy it. I think," she added. Ichabod frowned.

"You think?" he asked doubtfully. There was more to this, something she wasn't telling him. Furthermore, how would _she_ possibly know anything about how to stop a Daedric invasion when the greatest minds of the Mages Guild couldn't figure it out? "When you're ready to tell me the entire story, then I'll see what I can find on Daedric artifacts. Until then…" He shrugged, standing.

"Damn it, Ichabod." She glared up at him, and let out a long hiss. "Fine. Sit down." He did so carefully, and she moved over to his bench. She glanced around the room before speaking.

"The Emperor had another heir," she whispered in his ear. And he nearly laughed out loud, even as a fresh surge of anger rose up. She said it so _seriously_. It was as though she expected him to actually _believe_ her. Because there was no way she could be telling the truth. If there were another heir, the Elder Council would have already crowned him Emperor. And besides, this was _Lily_. She was poor, she wasn't educated, she was headstrong and impulsive and liked weapons and knew how to sling a mean spell and…

He sighed as he realized he was contradicting himself. All right, so maybe she _did _have a knack for getting herself into this kind of thing. "If he can relight the Dragonfires, the invasion will end. Only the Amulet of Kings…" She paused, and began fidgeting. "Well, it's not on Nirn anymore. And it's kind of my fault." She shifted away, not meeting his eyes. "There's a ritual to open a portal and retrieve it, but we need a Daedric artifact. I was hoping you'd know where to find one."

"How in _Oblivion _did you get mixed up in this?" he finally asked, after sitting for several moments in stunned silence. She finally met his gaze again.

"Don't ask," she stated bluntly. "If you won't help, just tell me. I'll figure something else out."

Damn it. He let out a long sigh. "I know of the location of a couple Daedric shrines." He couldn't believe he was doing this. He couldn't believe he _believed _her. "Malacath's and Meridia's." Her face darkened.

"Not Meridia." She shook her head, tight-lipped. He frowned, but decided not to press it.

"All right," he said carefully. "Malacath, then." He paused. "Lord of the spurned and ostracized, keeper of the Sworn Oath and the Bloody Curse." He shrugged. "He shouldn't be terribly dangerous to deal with. As far as Daedra go, at least. His shrine is on the Gold Coast, and according to legend, his artifact is a cursed warhammer that will unmake any other Daedra who attempts to use it. Although it's unknown what this really means, because according to daedric scholars, any creature that finds itself adrift on the waters of Oblivion…" He caught himself.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I didn't mean to get carried away." But to his surprise, her face wore a ghost of a smile.

"Do you want to come with me?" she suddenly asked. He blinked, slightly taken aback. "You know more about this than I do, and you seem far too excited to pass this up." He hesitated, and suddenly, he was nineteen again and utterly confused. "For old times' sake," she urged, and then she actually smiled.

"All right," he agreed. Then, quickly added, "As a member of the Mages Guild, I'd be responsible if something happened to you because of information I gave you." He stole a quick glance at her, and her brow had arched amusedly.

"Wonderful." She rose. "Meet me at the stables tomorrow morning? Seven o'clock?" He nodded his agreement, and she sailed out the door without another word.

But the next morning, as he made his way to the city gates, the doubt began to hit him harder than ever. What was he _doing_, abandoning his studies and his duties and running off with a woman from his past to summon a damn _Daedra_? A woman who had verbally abused him and pulled him headfirst into her insanity—and then had the nerve to not only disappear, but to reappear years later with more questions than answers. How in Oblivion had _she _found another heir? How did she know so much about the Amulet of Kings, about this ritual? Could she even be trusted?

This question continued to plague him until he approach the stables—only to stop short. "Morning." There she sat, atop the most monstrous steed he had ever seen. "Rented that grey there for you." She pointed toward a pale grey mare hitched nearby, and he cautiously untied the reins. "Her name's Pamela. She'll be a little small for you, I think, but the handler said she was hardy. Gentle, too." Sure enough, his feet dangled past her sides, but the mare barely batted an eyelash.

Gingerly, he tugged on the reins to turn her toward the road, and just like that, he was off on an adventure with his best friend. They may as well have been walking north instead of riding west, and he have green robes and a bad haircut, her dressed in rags and with a pair of deep green eyes. What had _happened_ to her anyhow? An injury of some sort?

He couldn't summon up the courage to ask—not that it mattered, though, because they rode too far apart from each other for conversation. Her mount, Lily had explained, didn't like other horses, and besides, the brute kept trying to run ahead. Lily was constantly reining her in, and his poor little mare could barely keep up.

They stopped to camp for the night just west of Skingrad, but he could barely swallow his dinner before he fell into a dreamless sleep. When he awoke, however, he was at first absolutely convinced he'd been paralyzed. He groaned as he dragged himself from his bedroll, his screaming muscles protesting his treatment of them the day before. He shot a glare at Pamela as he made his way to the fire, but the mare was oblivious, innocently nibbling at the grass.

Lily smiled sympathetically as she stirred the coals. "You'll be stiff for a few days," she said as she passed over a hunk of bread. The faint jingling that accompanied the motion informed him that she was wearing chainmail beneath her robes.

"I thought as much," he grumbled, running a hand through his matted hair. Her only response was silence, however, which stretched on until he broke it once he'd finished the meager breakfast. "The last settlement we'll reach before the shrine will be Brina Cross Inn," he explained as he unfurled his map. "We should leave the horses and make the rest of the way on foot. The mages at the university still like to tell the story of a scholar who tried to summon Sheogorath and got his horse turned into a cliff racer for his trouble." She chuckled softly at that, but the silence continued, until that afternoon as they began trekking off across the golden sea of grass, the inn shrinking into the distance behind them.

"So how's your father?" she asked finally. He sucked in a deep breath inward.

"Dead." Best leave it at that. But the rustling beside him stopped as she stood still.

"Honditar's dead?" He, too, stopped, turning to face her. Her face had gone oddly soft, her eyes wide.

"He contracted Black-Heart Blight last fall." He pursed his lips, unsure of why he was telling her this. "I was at the University at the time. If I'd been there, I would have taken him to a healer immediately, but by the time I came home for the holidays, it was too late. The healers said there was nothing they could do. So I took him home and watched over him for his last week, and he passed in the night. He'd been delirious, and the healers said he probably hadn't felt a thing." He turned and began walking again.

"Ichabod, I'm so sorry." She hurried after him, her hidden chainmail jingling as she struggled to match his longer stride.

"Don't be." He shrugged. "It is what it is." There was another silence before she spoke again.

"Dar-Ma says you haven't been around in a while."

He frowned at that one. "You've been talking to Dar-Ma?" He turned to her, surprised. "When did you return to Chorrol?" It was her turn to be evasive, as she shrugged and suddenly became very intent on the horizon.

"I never really left," she said. "I travel a lot. But I only met up with Dar-Ma again this summer."

"How is she?" he finally asked.

"Good. She's in the Mages Guild, you know. Planning on taking her Evoker exam next year."

"Is she?" He could feel his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "Good for her!" The last he'd spoken to her, she'd been planning on helping Seed-Neeus in the store full-time. He'd urged her to consider all her options, but then he'd had the fight with Honditar, and had abandoned his visits home.

"Yes. She's actually a rather talented conjurer." She laughed a little. "She can make skeletons do this odd little dance. It's like—" She paused, and began doing a strange hopping motion. Ichabod looked on, amused, until she finally gave up, shrugging her shoulders. "Well, it's funnier when you actually see it," she reasoned, trekking forward once again. And Ichabod surprised himself by letting out a small laugh—his first genuine one in far too long. A small spark of happiness had stirred inside him, and the warm glow lasted until she started to chatter on about alchemy.

"I tried to collect as many goldenrod samples as I can whenever I'm out here," she said, filling a small pouch at her side with white seed pods. "I know it's not terribly much in the grand scheme of things, but I think it's too expensive to buy frequently, and I've been using a lot more of it recently. You know, I just discovered the silencing effect. What have you been working with lately?"

"Fly amanita," he muttered, picking his way around a boulder.

"Fly amanita," she repeated, and he could hear the question in her tone. He couldn't blame her—it made no sense for a higher ranking mage to be dabbling with such a common plant. But a nerve had been struck, and he could feel the anger rolling back in.

"Yes. It's not as though I had a lot of people to discuss potions with after you up and disappeared on me." His tone icy, he picked up his pace, striding away from her quicker still. The chainmail was jingling again, and then a hand closed on his arm, pulling him to a halt.

"After I _disappeared on you_?" she demanded. "_You _were the one who was angry at _me_."

"_I _didn't _curse you out _in the middle of the damn _street_!" he objected, his voice rising.

"Well maybe you should have! _You're _the one who walked away, Ichabod! Are you really so afraid of conflict?" Her words hit home, but he fired back.

"It was a _public place_, Lily! I'm sorry that I have _manners_," he snapped.

"I waited at the statue of Mara for _days _afterward. For _weeks_," she hissed.

"I had _academic obligations_; I was _busy_," he protested, but his back was to the setting sun as she snarled at him, and by the _Nine_, in the low glow her eyes were _really orange_. He stared, half petrified, and she met his gaze straight on. Then her shoulders slumped and she turned away.

"Are we almost there?" she asked tiredly.

"Yes." He swallowed hard. "It should only be over the next hill, actually." And the silence was back, louder than ever until a massive stone figure came into view, flanked by several smaller, living ones.

"What do we do now?" Lily whispered. Ichabod's mouth had gone dry, and he suddenly realized that they were about to make contact with a _Daedric Prince_. What had they been thinking? His heart thudded in his chest, but he managed to answer.

"Approach and make the offering." He jiggled the pouch of troll fat at his side, and they began their careful approach. As they drew closer, a voice rang out.

"Shobob! Strangers!" They froze as the figures turned their way, and one stepped forward to meet them. An Orc dressed in monk's robes, he folded his arms over his chest as he fixed them with a scrutinizing stare. Try as he might, Ichabod felt himself shrink a little under the man's heavy gaze.

"So _you _dare to approach the shrine of our lord." He sneered. "I guess you haven't heard. We don't like beautiful people." And then Ichabod's ears picked up a faint sound, the low rasp of a blade being slowly drawn from its sheath. To his horror, several more joined the chorus, and the rest of the figures came to stand behind their leader, weapons at the ready. His stomach seized up painfully, and his knees began to tremble. _We're going to die. We're actually going to die here. Oh Arkay, receive me…_

"Silly Orc. Don't you know beauty is only skin deep?" And Ichabod cut off his prayer mid-sentence as Lily's voice rang out, cool and lazy. To his surprise, the Orc's face briefly relaxed.

"So I've heard. But can you persuade me that you're ugly on the inside?"

"Why do you think we're here?" She stepped forward, gesturing widely. "We're not seeking out Azura. Or Clavicus Vile. Or Meridia." She didn't have to fake the sneer she added at the last name, and he wondered what her conflict with the Daedra was.

"So you say." The Orc cocked his head thoughtfully. "And here you are." For a moment, he and Lily locked stares. Then slowly, he began to nod.

"Very well. Go on, approach. But you should know, he wants a present. Malacath likes presents."

"Troll fat." Ichabod's voice had come unstuck, and he found himself wildly waving the pouch. The Orc laughed.

"Very good. He will be pleased." The weapons of the other worshipers disappeared, and the crowd parted, allowing them to pass through.

"How do we do this?" Lily muttered, nudging him. All eyes were on them, and he could feel his blood pumping faster.

"Spread it across the base. Here." He opened the pouch, and withdrew a handful. Lily followed suit, and despite her grimace, helped him until the pouch was empty. They both quickly stepped back—only for nothing to happen. Lily turned to him, opening her mouth as though to speak, but then the earth shook, and a deep voice reverberated through him. And somehow, Ichabod knew the voice was only audible inside their heads—the voice of a Daedric Lord.

"_Nice present. That's smart. You want something? Then do what I tell you. Lord Drad took my ogres. Says he owns them. Lying maggot!"_ And Ichabod felt a tremor run through him at the sheer wrath behind the words. "_They're MY ogres_!" the prince roared. "_Lord Drad put my little brothers in chains, working in the mines. And I don't like that. So get over to Lord Drad's estate. Let my ogres loose, and get them out! Okay? Get going!_" And it was as though an oppressive weight was lifted from his skull as the Daedra left his mind.

He heard his own ragged gasp as his legs threatened to give out, and he glanced over to where Lily was slowly straightening as well. "You heard all that?" she asked faintly. He nodded. "I know where he means," she muttered, glancing cautiously at the crowd of worshipers staring at them. "We can be done before the night's over." He nodded, still feeling too languid to speak. The strength had returned to his body, however, and he turned and followed her into the night.

They ended up crouched on a hilltop, looking over a sprawling manor. "The mine's just down there." Lily's voice was only a hushed whisper. "Can you stay low and quiet?" An angry retort formed on the tip of his tongue, but there was something about her manner that stopped him. She was confident, at ease, yet brisk—_professional_, even. So he simply nodded, and rose into a crouch alongside her. "_Go!_" she hissed, and they raced down the hill.

They planted themselves flat against the wooden door when they reached the bottom. However, a heavy lock was clamped into place across the latch. Ichabod was about to test it with the strongest lock-opening spell he knew, but Lily produced a thin, hooked piece of metal seemingly out of nowhere and began prodding at it. There was a small snap, and she made a face as she withdrew the broken piece, but had another in her hand in a second. And then, with click, the lock popped open. Of course she knew how to pick locks. Of course. "Wait out here," she whispered. "Stay out of sight. I'll be back in a few minutes." And then she slipped into the gloom.

The minutes ticked by, and he began to grow worried. What was taking so long? Had she been captured? And then an even worse thought: what exactly was she _doing_ in there? There had to be guards or overseers of some sort in there, right? She wouldn't _kill _them—would she? But then the door slammed open, and a herd of ogres stampeded out

Terrified, he froze where he had crouched behind the door. The ground shook, and their grunting calls filled the night. He was about to be trampled, and if not, one of their dangling fists would knock his head in. "Come on!" a voice yelled, and a hand grabbed his arm. "Run!" And he was half-dragged to his feet as Lily sprinted away, pulling him along with her.

About half a mile away, they finally slowed, and he gasped for breath. "What on _Nirn _was that?" he demanded.

"I let the ogres out." She frowned at him curiously. "What did you think I was doing?" He shrugged, but didn't give any other response. He suddenly felt guilty, and a small prickle of resentment rose up toward her for making him feel that way.

* * *

The second time the Daedra's voice filled his head was just as terrible as the first, but somehow being prepared for it eased its jarring impact somewhat. "_Good job!"_ the prince crowed. "_No one owns ogres but ME! And I fixed that maggot! The ogres own Drad! Make Drad eat dirt! Bwah-hah-hah!_" Ichabod winced as the laughter rattled the inside of his skull. "_Now you get a present_." And suddenly they both found themselves lurching back as a warhammer dropped seemingly out of nowhere in front of their feet. "_Keep up the good work. Keep your prince safe. And be nice to my little brothers, like you were to Kvatch!_" The weight disappeared, and Lily bent to hoist up the warhammer. She made some comment on it, but Ichabod barely heard her. Something had finally clicked in his head, and now it all made sense.

He didn't speak a word to her as they journeyed back, but now the silence was icy rather than comfortable. If his rudeness bothered her, she didn't comment on it, although she, too, grew quieter and quieter as they rode along. She finally spoke on the afternoon of the second day, as they approached the turnoff for the Imperial City.

"We can part ways here, if you don't mind," she said, halting her beast and turning back to face him. "I have to deliver this, and the sooner I get it into Martin's hands, the better." He too, halted his little mare, and finally broke his silence.

"You're the Hero of Kvatch, aren't you?" She didn't respond, and for a moment, he wondered if she'd heard him. But then she fumbled with the front clasps of her robe, and it fell away to reveal a cuirass bearing the wolf of Kvatch.

"How did you know?" she asked. He shrugged. Somehow, Pamela's mane seemed incredibly fascinating all of a sudden.

"You know too much. About the Emperor, about the Daedra. And even right from the beginning, you said you'd been at Kvatch. It was obvious, really. I can't believe I didn't figure it out. At least not until Malacath said…" He shrugged. "You know." There was another silence, and he looked up to see her gaze furiously boring into him.

"You're angry that—what? That there's an heir to the throne, that the Empire won't have to remain in chaos? That innocent people survived annihilation?"

"That's not what I'm saying," he stated flatly. "It's just that I never _know_ with you, Lily. You're exhausting to _be_ around. Having you in my life is _draining_." It was unkind, and he knew it. But it was _his _turn for once.

Her lips were tightly pursed, and she was staring down into her steed's mane. Then, she nodded slowly. "You know, I had Black-Heart Blight once." She made the revelation casually, as though commenting on the weather. "I survived only because I was placed in a magically-induced coma and had constant medical supervision." Her eyes flickered up and met his once again. "From what I knew of Honditar, he wouldn't have gone to a healer if you'd physically dragged him out the door. And I worked for Rasheda, so I knew quite a bit. Also, let's be honest; there's no way anyone as scrawny as you would be capable of carrying a full-grown, struggling man." She tugged on the reins, turning her mount to the north.

"Goodbye, Ichabod. And good luck. If you ever need me, you can find me at Cloud Ruler Temple. And for the record…" Here she paused. "I think your parlor tricks are wonderful." And then the horse was tearing down the road, disappearing into the distance. Leaving him alone there on the road astride a rented horse, with only his confusion and another staggering dose of guilt. _Damn her_.

He suddenly kicked his feet free of the stirrups, hurling himself off the mare so quickly she threw her head up and shied away. Ignoring her, he stalked several meters away to the very center of the road and threw his arm out. A cloud of orange swirled up, only to suddenly disappear with a _whoosh_. And there in its place stood a dark figure.

Slowly, it reached up and removed its helm, revealing an alien creature with dark, glittering eyes. Eyes burning with hate as it took in the sight of its captor. "Be quick about it, mortal. What is your command?" it rasped.

Ichabod met its gaze with an equally heated stare. "Return to your plane, Kynval. Your service is not needed." And with a flick of his wrist, he cast the counterspell, sending it back to Oblivion.

For a moment, he hunched over, hands planted on his knees. He drew the air into his lungs slowly, forcing his breathing to return to normal after his exertion. Then he returned to his horse and remounted, riding for the City.

* * *

**A/N: So Ichabod's back. Who's excited to see him again? Or was anyone NOT excited? Let me know what you thought of this one, given that it's been so long since we've seen him. **


	42. Chapter 39: The Weight of the World

**A/N: So. About this chapter. I could say I didn't mean for it to happen, but that's probably a lie. But things just started making _sense_, you know? So then...this happened. And honestly, I can dig it. This was downright terrifying to write, and the pacing actually worried me almost as much as the content. And the characterization. But I'm going to stop myself right there. So if you like it, great! If not, forgive me?**

* * *

Chapter 39: The Weight of the World

_Martin_

The doors of the great hall creaked open, and he glanced up in mild irritation as a gust of icy wind whooshed past him, causing the pages of his book to flutter wildly. But then he caught sight of the familiar dark-robed figure and he immediately straightened up. "You're back," he called in greeting. She strode forward slowly, her fingers visibly straining to keep a grip on the massive warhammer she had hoisted on her shoulder. "By the Nine, that's not…"

"Volendrung." With a slight grimace, she shifted it downward. Still, there was a splintering crack as it clunked against the floor. "Malacath's pride and joy."

"Volendrung," he repeated. He rose from the chair to crouch beside it, wincing slightly at the new indentation in the floorboards as he ran his fingers across the intricate carvings. "Who now knows the tale of how this Dwemer hammer came to embody the power of one of their most bitter foes?" He sat back on his heels and glanced up at her. "I won't ask what you went through to obtain this. I know all too well the depravity of the princes of Oblivion." He tried not to let any bitterness seep into his tone as he resumed his position back in his chair. But she only shrugged as she sank down on the bench across from him.

"I don't know, Malacath didn't seem to be terribly hard to deal with. Also…" She hesitated, and he felt his brow crease into a frown. "He was…" She gestured with a gloved hand as she searched for the right word. "Oddly…_supportive_."

"Supportive?" Martin blinked in confusion. She nodded, shifting back in her seat.

"He mentioned Kvatch, and said to keep you safe. It was strange, Martin, I…" She trailed off with a faint grimace. "Should we be worried?" She pointed at the warhammer resting against the table.

"That the hammer is cursed, or perhaps a fake?" He, too, stared at the weapon as he pondered.

"Yes."

He allowed several moments to pass before he spoke. "I don't think so. The hammer is real, no doubt about it. I could feel its power the moment I touched it. And it already _is _cursed in a sense, in that…"

"…if another daedra attempts to use it they'll be unmade," she finished. He glanced her way in surprise.

"That's right." Another pause. "But as for why Malacath was so eager to support you…" He shrugged. "Well, think about who, or _what_ the Daedra really are. Embodiments of _change_, of chaos, unpredictability. And when you think about who Malacath himself is, it almost makes sense. If Mehrunes Dagon succeeds, we'll all find ourselves under Malacath's patronage," he stated grimly.

"Or because if Mehrunes Dagon destroys the world, the Daedra won't have any mortals left to toy with?" She said this almost wryly, and he could have sworn he saw the corners of her mouth flare up as her brow wrinkled.

"Another plausible explanation, yes," he agreed. She'd drawn faint charcoal arches above her eyes in place of her singed-off eyebrows, he noted, and he felt a hint of a smile tug at his lips, but it was quickly overwhelmed by a jaw-cracking yawn. Lily's face immediately filled with concern.

"What are you still doing up, anyhow? It's late," she admonished, suddenly sounding so much like Oleta he couldn't help but smile, for real this time.

"The Xarxes doesn't sleep." He gave a small mirthless chuckle. "Also I've made very little progress while you were gone. There has to be something here; I'm just not seeingit." He could hear the frustration building in his tone, so he stopped himself before he went too far. She stood and made her way to his side of the table.

"Get some sleep, Martin," she said seriously, and to his surprise, she placed a hand on his shoulder. "Sometimes just stepping away—even for a short while—can do wonders. I'm about to do the same myself." And then she turned and headed toward the west wing doors, disappearing into the barracks.

He resumed skimming over the paragraph he'd been going through for the past hour, but after a few minutes, he snapped the book shut and stood. Maybe Lily was right—and a nap wouldn't hurt. Baurus fell in step behind him as he made his way to his quarters, causing him to wince at the realization that the man had been standing there with him all night. Baurus was loyal to a fault—he knew that, but having someone constantly watch his every movement was slightly unnerving.

Of course, he reminded himself, it'd been that way when he returned to the Chapel. Only those eyes hadn't been so friendly. But over time, their suspicion decreased, and when he'd once again been accepted as one of them, the watching stopped. But Baurus showed no intention of easing up on his vigil—ever. He shuddered a little at that thought.

"Goodnight, Emperor," Baurus acknowledged as they reached the door to his chamber, and Martin gave an unintelligible reply as he slid shut the door. At least the Blade didn't insist on watching him sleep—although he would not leave his post outside the door until Martin exited the room, it was still the only place in the entire fortress he had any privacy.

Three weeks ago, he would have balked at being called Emperor, would have simply stood in awe at the lavishness of the room. Three weeks ago he _had._ But now, he was just so _tired. _He fell face-first on the oversized feather bed, sinking into its depths without bothering to kick off his shoes. _Just a short nap… _His eyes drifted shut, and when he opened them again, sunlight was streaming through the window.

He rose in a hurry and swept back down to the main hall, the shuffling of Baurus' armor rapid as he rushed after him. He delved straight back in to the paragraph from the night before, and within twenty minutes had managed to cross-reference a line with something he'd read elsewhere. Perhaps a good night's sleep had helped after all.

Some time later, he heard the west wing doors clatter open and looked up to see Lily exiting, robes absent for a change. Instead, she was fully armored, and had slung her pack over her shoulders. "Are you leaving?" he called. She nodded as she made her way over.

"Orders from Jauffre. I'm off to convince the Count of Leyawiin to send troops to Bruma." She paused. "Apparently two Mythic Dawn spies were caught in the city last night." That got his attention

"Preparing to launch another attack." It went without saying, but he said it anyway. He could feel his heartbeat accelerating as she nodded.

"That's the assumption. One of them was killed, but Burd's men are interrogating the other. In the meantime, as Jauffre pointed out, the daedra may be innumerable, but Bruma absolutely cannot fall." His stomach twisted at the thought of Bruma being reduced to a smoking pile of rubble as Kvatch had been, followed by a quick surge of guilt at the realization that _he _was Lily and Jauffre's primary concern in this situation—not the citizens of Bruma.

"So I'm off to recruit reinforcements," she continued, clearly not noticing his discomfort. "And Martin?" He glanced up to meet her eyes. "Promise me you'll take care of yourself while I'm gone." She pointed at the corner of the table where the Xarxes sat, surrounded by the warding symbols he'd drawn. "Don't make it any easier for Mehrunes Dagon, hmm?" She lifted her gaze from his to something behind his head. "You'll make sure of it, won't you Baurus?" He heard the Blade shift behind him.

"He won't listen." Although Baurus' voice still bore a note of hostility, it eased somewhat in the face of a common goal. "He never listens to me. He hasn't eaten since noon yesterday." Martin smiled sheepishly as he felt the Blade's gaze burning through the back of his skull. Lily turned her attention back to him with a reproachful frown.

"Martin." As she glared down at him, arms crossed over her chest, he was suddenly uncomfortably aware of the fact that this woman had charged headfirst into Oblivion.

"All right," he relented. "I'll eat." He heard Baurus snicker behind him, and he could only imagine the look of glee on the man's face.

"Good." Lily stepped back, looking exceptionally pleased with herself. "Anyhow, I'm off. Good luck with the Xarxes, remember what you promised, and I'll see you in a few days." And she headed out of the temple.

"Well." Baurus' boots thudded on the floor, and then the Blade was standing in front of him, arms folded across his chest and smirk on his face. "Are you going to do what she says?"

A short while later, one of the Blades brought him a bowl from the kitchen, a thick stew with hearty chunks of beef and potatoes. He set aside his books and began to eat. "Baurus?" he asked after a few minutes

"Hmm?" The other man had been brought a bowl as well, and was thoroughly distracted.

"How old is she, anyway?" Her lined face and the way she fussed over him suggested maturity, but some of her mannerisms were downright youthful. Baurus, however, had mentioned that he'd seen her prison record once.

"About twenty-two, I think."

Martin began to cough as he inhaled a piece of potato. He slammed his palms on the table as the blood rushed to his face and his eyes began to water. Baurus dutifully thumped him on the back until his windpipe was clear again.

"_Twenty-two?_" Martin demanded as soon as he could speak again, pushing aside the treacherous stew. The Blade nodded.

"She's aged _a lot _in four years. I'll give you that." He sighed. "Too much, actually. Something had to have happened to her. No idea what, but it definitely wasn't pretty."

He glanced back down at his book, feeling suddenly mortified. He'd thought early thirties at the youngest, yet there she was, nearly three decades younger—and mothering him. "What did she do, anyhow? To end up in prison." The fact that the Emperor—his father—had fled the Imperial City using an escape route that led through her cell seemed to be common knowledge among the Blades, but everyone was strangely quiet about it. He'd only heard the story in bits and pieces, and none of those pieces seemed to focus on her.

"There's what she _did_, and then there's what she was _accused of_. Either way, she was pardoned, and it's not for me to say." Martin turned in surprise as Baurus fell silent.

"_You're_ keeping quiet about this." he noted. He frowned. Given the Blade's animosity toward the woman, he would have thought he'd leap at the opportunity to bash her. But he was only met with a stone-faced stare. "It was bad, wasn't it?" At the slight purse of Baurus's lips, he turned back around, his imagination running wild. What could she have managed to accomplish at seventeen? eighteen? that would have the Blades so concerned? What could she have managed to accomplish at that age to land her in prison to begin with? He thought of the mischief he'd been up to at that age with a sigh.

The thought continued to plague him as he flipped through pages. Maybe he'd just ask her himself when she got back. But no, he realized, he wouldn't do that. Everyone had their secrets—and some secrets were best kept hidden, he thought darkly. But as time passed, he began to grow concerned. She had said she would only be a few days, but those days turned into weeks. And when she finally did return, she was changed.

He first noticed it the moment she walked into the main hall, some time after the scouts had reported seeing her riding up the road. She gone over to Jauffre, who was seated a few tables away, and spoke with him in murmured tones before slipping out the front doors again. He hadn't been able to hear their conversation, but he could see her face, and what he saw worried him.

Everything about her features had always been thin and drawn, but now she somehow seemed _hollow_, more so than ever. Her cheeks, her eyes…everything now seemed dull, lifeless, sunken.

He resumed his reading, but he was distracted. Aside from his worries about Lily, he had another of his "Xarxes headaches," as he'd begun to call them. Despite his warding spell, at times he could feel its darkness, reaching out across the table toward him. He tried to limit his contact with it as much as possible, but there were days it was necessary to delve into its pages themselves, and those were the days the pain would fester, deep inside his skull, and reality showed itself through a sanguine-tinged lens. It was one of these days that she returned, and it was hours later, deep in the night, when he heard it.

He looked up from his book, frowning as he glanced around the room. He could have sworn he'd heard it: the faint creaking of a hinge, the light thud of a door closing, but the main hall was empty. He returned to the book, but the hairs on the back of his neck were prickling. At this hour, the lights were low, and the shadows were long and full, filling the corners of the room and seeping outward. _It's the Xarxes. Playing tricks with my head. _But as much as he tried to talk it down, the feeling didn't go away.

Despite himself, he glanced over in Baurus' direction, but the Blade had fallen asleep in a chair several yards away. He grimaced a little at the sight, suddenly feeling guilty. Baurus kept his watch night and day, and his relentless schedule was taking as much of a toll on his bodyguard as it did on him. His bodyguard. He realized he'd actually used that term, and only felt guiltier than ever. When did he become the kind of person who had a _bodyguard_? He sighed as he did another glance around the room—and nearly fell out of his chair when the dim light of the fire revealed a large black shape.

His hand shot out and grabbed the edge of the table just in time, as the other readied a frost spell. _Call for Baurus! _a voice in his head screamed, but the black shape snapped around, and Lily looked just as alarmed as he was.

"_Gods' blood_," she hissed, glancing over at Baurus, who had slept through the entire altercation. "You scared me," she muttered, turning back to the fire. The adrenaline was still singing through Martin's veins, but he stood and made his way over. She was sitting on the hearth, her voluminous black robe draped around her shoulders like a blanket.

"You scared me as well," he countered, crouching down beside her. "I hardly heard you come in." She shrugged.

"Baurus was asleep, and you looked like you were concentrating," she muttered, staring down at her bare toes. "I didn't want to distract you, but…" She shrugged again. "We both know how well that plan turned out." She glanced over at him for the first time. "You can get back to your studying. I won't keep you any longer."

"I needed a break," he answered truthfully. The Xarxes headache had reached the point of nearly splitting open his skull, and even stepping away just now had eased the throbbing slightly. "What are you doing out here, anyhow? Couldn't sleep?"

She shook her head. "I'm _cold_." She drew her robe tighter around her shoulders. "When you're…" Her voice trailed off, and he frowned.

"When you're…" he urged gently. She slowly drew in a deep breath.

"When you're…_there_." Her lips tightened grimly. "In…in Oblivion," she continued, "the heat is just so _oppressive_. It starts to broil you alive in your armor, and it stings your eyes and parches your tongue, and all you can think about is how badly you want relief. All you want is for the blessed cold to come and soothe it, but once you're out, the cold is _worse_, somehow. Because the heat can strip your flesh away and melt you down to nothing, but the cold—the cold gets _inside_ you. Into your very bones." She had begun speaking more rapidly, her words running together. "And all you want is the heat again." Her voice had dropped back down to a faint whisper.

"Lily," he said slowly. "What happened?" The question seemed to snap her back to reality.

"I'm sorry?" Her cool tone was back, its ragged edge neatly sanded away.

"In Leyawiin," he prompted patiently. "You said you'd be gone a few days, but here you are just now, and it's been nearly a month." She appeared to have zoned out again, but her mouth twitched slightly. "So what happened?"

For a moment, he thought she wasn't going to answer, but then a long sigh escaped her lips, and she began speaking. "There were fifteen Oblivion Gates in County Leyawiin," she stated coolly, her eyes flicking shut. "And the Count refused to send reinforcements until they were closed."

"All of them?" He didn't like where this was heading.

"All of them," she confirmed. Her eyes drifted open, and she stared into the flames. "So I closed them."

"Did…he send troops to close them with you?" But he was fairly certain he already knew the answer.

"He sent troops back to Bruma with me." As he had suspected, then. His jaw involuntarily clenched, causing the Xarxes headache to sear up again. "And that's all that matters." Some of the strength had returned to her voice with that statement, and he breathed a little easier.

He couldn't help but worry about her, though, in the months to come. Winter had arrived in the Jeralls, making travel difficult, but at any break in the weather, no matter how slight, Jauffre would send Lily off on another mission. In her time at the Temple, though, she took to sleeping on the floor in front of the fire out in the main hall—something Martin found himself oddly grateful for. She suffered from nightmares, and he often found himself startled from his work by her crying out, but he didn't mind. In the mornings, she'd ask if he'd heard her, but he would always deny it, for fear that she would start sleeping in the barracks.

Because despite the distraction, he liked having her there. Her presence was somehow soothing; the Xarxes headaches were never quite as bad when she was there. She kept him grounded when the dark whispers in his head grew almost tangible, and although he was ashamed to admit it, sometimes when it was that bad he would go over to the fire under the guise of warming himself, but secretly hoping she would awaken. Because when she woke in the middle of the night—whether from his intervention or from the horrors in her own mind—they would talk, sometimes for a few minutes, but sometimes until pale light of dawn would creep through the windows and the darkness would begin to dissipate.

He began to make progress on the Xarxes, and when he discovered the next item needed, he felt incredibly guilty asking her to retrieve it. All the while she was gone, he could only think of her nightmares, of her cries in the night, of the haunted look that stuck with her whenever she returned from Oblivion. But when she entered the main hall carrying the armor of Tiber Septim, she wore a look of quiet triumph he had never seen in her before.

"It was incredible, Martin," she whispered that night as they huddled by the fire. The room was empty, but Baurus—ever watchful—stood nearby, and it would be nearly impossible for him to not hear their conversation. "The _power_—sheer, raw _power_." Her eyes glimmered excitedly in the low light of the flames.

"But it was terrifying, too," she continued. "Just the fact that you _still_ _could_ feel it, after all that time had passed! And those Blades, trapped there like that for so long…" She shuddered slightly, her brow furrowed at the memory.

"I suppose that's the nature of power, though," he sighed. "We want it, we crave it, we _lust _after it _so badly_…but then we're surprised when we see its effects." He snorted, but when he was met with silence, he glanced over to see her staring at him curiously.

"You're a priest," she said slowly, but there was a question hidden beneath it. He exhaled.

"I haven't always been," he admitted. "In my youth, I followed a very different path." Suddenly, the flames were capturing his full attention. "My friends and I grew…impatient with the Mages Guild's restrictions. And so we threw ourselves into the riddles of Daedric magic." Memories began to surface; memories that he had pushed down and suppressed for so long rose before him.

"We hungered for forbidden secrets. Knowledge and power were our gods. You can guess the rest, I'm sure." A bitter laugh poured from his throat. "We got in over our heads. People died." _But it was so much more than that. _"My friends died. Let's just leave it at that."

He finally dared a glance in her direction, but her face was mercifully blank. "I'm sorry," she said simply, her voice soft.

"You needn't feel sorry for me," he said with a sigh. "The bitter wisdom that one has been a fool is not without value. When I became a priest, I put aside the dark arts. 'The gods can turn anything to good,' I piously told those who came to me for advice." He paused. "I never believed it myself, but in these past few months, I have seen the workings of fate play out in ways I could have never imagined. I may still yet come to believe it after all." She didn't respond, but the silence felt merely reflective rather than uncomfortable.

"My father fell into Daedra worship," she said suddenly. His head snapped in her direction as a thousand questions formed on the tip of his tongue, but he managed to force them down. "Indirectly, at least," she continued. "I used to think it was because he was evil, but now I think he was just stupid."

At that, he couldn't help but laugh, although not unkindly. "Yes, I can assure you he was stupid," he remarked wryly. She gave a small half-chuckle.

"I've never been able to understand why, though. He destroyed our family over it, and I'll never forgive him." Her tone was edged in bitterness. "But that's how Daedric Princes work, isn't it? They give you a taste of what you want, and then they cash in on the price. And even if you're unwilling to pay, you don't realize it until it's too late."

He had never thought about it that way before, but, as he mused it over, truer words had never been spoken. "Exactly."

But lacking the wisdom to discern that was no excuse. Another silence fell, and he thought she had fallen asleep, but then she spoke again. "It makes me wonder. About the Mythic Dawn, I mean." There was a pause. "They're so…unfeeling. And hateful. But I…" Another pause. "I stood before them, in their sanctuary, wearing their robes, with a whole mob of them urging me to sacrifice a prisoner." Martin felt his throat tighten as his brow creased. She had never mentioned any of this—not to him, not Jauffre, not to any of the Blades that he knew of.

"And Martin, it…" Her voice had grown very small. "It was terrifying. You felt almost… helpless." The fact that she had switched from using "I" to "you" didn't escape him. "I just wonder what it was like. For them." She paused. "Some are fanatics; that's for certain. But the rest—did they think they had no choice?"

That thought stayed with him over the next several weeks. Lily was gone for most of that time, and the Xarxes' assault on his psyche was worse than ever. Before long, sleep, which had been his last true sanctuary, had been invaded as well, and as his days and nights blurred together in a never-ending haze of darkness, his only solace was the thought that he had _chosen better_ than this. He could _resist_. But then one morning, not long after New Life, he awoke to find that he was blind.

He'd fallen asleep over his books, and abruptly woke from a nightmare to be met only by a bizarre blur when he opened his eyes. A Xarxes headache was raging through his skull as well—the worst one yet, and suddenly, he felt as though he was going to be sick. "Baurus," he managed to feebly call, and in the moment he felt the Blade beside him.

"Your Majesty—what is it? Martin? Martin!" Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew something was very, very wrong for Baurus to be addressing him by name.

"Baurus, I can't see," he murmured, suddenly feeling dizzy.

"Blades! The Emperor is in trouble!" Baurus roared, and the throbbing in his head flared up even harder, threatening to split his skull in half. The splitting sensation only intensified as the Blades surrounded and lifted him, the motion threatening to make him spill his guts as he was carried away. Then he felt an unmistakable softness beneath him that could only be the bed in his chamber, and a cool, wet cloth being placed over his eyes.

"…complain of these often?" "Why didn't…" "…thought it was…" "Drink this, it'll…" "…hours, maybe a few more…" He caught snippets of conversation from the Blades, and despite their hushed tones, he just wished the noise would stop. But eventually it did, and he was left alone.

He must have fallen asleep, for the next thing he knew, the cloth over his face was dry. The pain was still there, but it had dulled to a low ache. Slowly, he reached up and pulled the cloth away, and when he did so, he could make out the shadowy outlines of the furniture in his room. He breathed out a sigh of relief. It was nightfall, and his vision had returned.

Something tightened around his other hand. "Can you see?" Slowly, he turned his head to the side, and blinked as he made out the figure sitting there.

"Lily," he said slowly. He gently tugged his hand free of hers to push himself up into a sitting position. "When did you get back?"

"This afternoon." It was too dark to make out her features, but he could hear the edge in her tone. "Baurus was in a complete panic. He said you were blinded, and that it was all his fault. They actually had to drag him away from your door, and then they gave him something to calm him down."

"Baurus is a good man, but entirely delusional." He tried to joke, but it didn't sound very funny as he said it. "He places far too much blame on himself." But Lily didn't seem to be paying attention.

"Achille said it was just a migraine, and that it was nothing to worry about. But it was one of those headaches, wasn't it." There was no question in her steely tone, and he winced.

"Lily, I'm all right. Honestly. Achille said so himself, didn't he?" He tried to reach for her hand again, but she jerked it away.

"Martin, you have _got_ to take better care of yourself." The words were forceful, but the steel trembled slightly. "I see it, Baurus sees it, everyone but you sees it, and I just don't understand why."

"Lily, the Mysterium Xarxes is the most dangerous Daedric sorcery I have ever encountered. It _is _going to take a toll on me," he said quietly. "Yes, it was one of the headaches, but as you know, they're nothing new. I'm only days away from deciphering this next item, I'm sure of it. Then it's only one more, and then I'll never have to touch it again." He heard her sigh in the darkness.

"Taking the time to sleep or eat once in a while won't hurt, you know," she said flatly. "All you have to do is just _step away _from it, even if only for a few hours." He decided to change the subject.

"Tell me about your mission. How was Bravil?"

"I don't want to talk about Bravil," she spat. But he pressed further.

"How many Gates? Did he agree to send troops?" There was a long pause, and then she sighed, a hint of a growl following.

"Seven." Short and curt, but she never liked to elaborate on the Gates themselves. "And yes. He's sending troops." But there was some unidentifiable emotion in her voice.

"And what else?"

"Hmm?" She replied absently, and he knew he'd been right.

"Something else is bothering you," he pressed, but she was silent. "Lily."

"I really, _really_ hate Bravil," she said finally. "Nothing good has ever happened there."

"I only saw it once, from a distance a long time ago. But every traveler I've ever met says it's the worst city in Cyrodiil." But in the darkness he could just make out that she was shaking her head.

"No, it's not that. Well, it's true but…" Her voice trailed off. "I mean for me, Bravil was the beginning of the end," she added quietly. "Always has been, always will be." He frowned a little, but she continued. "I lived there once, you know. When I was a girl. My family fled there after everything that happened with my father." He suddenly thought of her imprisonment, and in that context, her "beginning of the end" comment made much more sense.

"How long has it been since you've seen them?" he asked. He still hadn't worked up the courage to question her on the circumstances that had led her to prison, but this question was pushing closer."

"Too long," she said ruefully. "I needed—I _need _more closure than what I got." She fell silent, and he carefully pushed a little further.

"Are they the ones you call out for?"

"I'm sorry?" The heat behind her words startled him, but it was too late to back out now.

"Sometimes you…you call out in your sleep. Ann? Vicente? Is that who they are?"

She sucked in a deep breath. "I don't want to talk about that." The weight of her voice sent an icy chill down his spine, and he once again quickly changed the subject. Lesson learned.

"Oleta, the healer at the Chapel, was the closest thing I ever had to a family." Strange, now that he mentioned her, he found himself missing her. "She looked after me from the very beginning, ever since Jauffre left me there."

"I met Oleta." Her tone had lightened slightly. "She was…_amazing_." Despite her anger, she couldn't keep the awe out of her voice, and Martin found himself smiling.

"An accurate description," he agreed. Oh, Oleta. The one person who'd always had faith in him, even when he himself hadn't. "It's funny—to think that she's the one who's known me the longest. My whole life, in fact." He paused. "Except for the time I was with my father, I suppose."

"How long was that for?" He heard the wariness in her tone, and knew she was trying not to pry. He couldn't help but smirk.

"I don't know, exactly. Jauffre was the only one who ever even knew I existed." He shook his head—slowly, as the motion still caused fresh waves of pain to shoot up. "Oleta says I was no more than a few weeks when she found me, but I don't know how long I was with my mother.

"Do you know anything about her?" Her tone was still cautious, but he could hear the curiosity breaking through.

"Nothing. Only my father did, it seems." He sighed. "I'm not sure I would _want _to know. In all likelihood, she was probably just a common whore, but I was born right before the Imperial Simulacrum began. There were some _strange _things happening in the Imperial Palace that year." He couldn't help but chuckle a little. "It's funny to think, though. Turning me over to Jauffre was one of the last things my father did before he was imprisoned in Oblivion. And now here I am, trying to prevent a Daedric conquest." He paused. "Do you ever find yourself simply standing awe at the cunning of destiny's hounds?"

"Every day." Her voice was oddly thick, and he fell asleep again after that.

* * *

He wouldn't have thought it possible, but Baurus watched him more closely than ever after that incident. The Blade had grown bolder, too, and had taken to insisting that he take regular meal breaks and sleep in his chambers at night. His headaches never went away, but they certainly lessoned, and never again reached the intensity of blinding him. But on nights Lily was in Cloud Ruler, he noted, Baurus left him alone—something he would never acknowledge, but secretly was eternally grateful for.

He was more worried about her than ever. She returned from Miscarcand with a Great Welkynd Stone pale, trembling, and silent. But by the fire that night, he finally got out of her that she had encountered several new Gates opened up along the way,

"I just don't understand," she muttered, her fingers flashing through her hair as she braided and unbraided the fiery mass. "I put measures in place back in the fall to make sure the Mythic Dawn were _hunted down_. _How _are they _still doing this_?" It had long ago been determined that the cultists were needed on the site in Tamriel in order to complete the ritual to open the Gates.

"Well, they've obviously gone underground," he replied evenly. "Theses Gates were out in the wilderness, though, right? At least they were away from the cities." His interest was piqued, however, by her saying she had put measures in place. Jauffre, of course, had commanded the Blades to be on the lookout, but that obviously wasn't what she was referring to.

"I don't care _where_ they are," she snapped. "I don't want them there _at all_." Nothing he was saying seemed to be helping, so instead, he focused on her rapidly moving fingers.

"You're good at that," he commented. Each time she wove a different set of complicated-looking twists, and it was a complete mystery to him how she could do it that quickly without watching what she was doing. But to his surprised, she slowed, and her anger seemed to fade away to sadness.

"Thank you." She wove in the last few strands, then combed it out with her fingers and tied it back in its usual ponytail. "My sister taught me how. She loved doing hair, making clothes…" She shrugged. "Things like that." He took a deep breath, and decided to push one last time.

"Was that Ann?" She froze, and he braced himself, preparing to apologize, but then she nodded.

"Not by birth," she said, "but you find find…surrogates, you know? Like you did with Oleta." And Martin was suddenly struck with the realization that he'd stumbled upon a very personal, very private piece of her past. He tried to say something, to move the conversation away, but she was still speaking. "But I forgot about something along the way, something important. And that was that they weren't actually my family. They were just people I worked with." The words were calloused, but her voice was raw, quivering with poorly-concealed emotion. And he found himself asking before he could stop himself.

"What happened to them?" Because whatever it was, it didn't matter. He'd told her about his Daedra worshiping days, about the fates of his friends. But she half turned to face him, and he saw that her eyes were moist.

"Oh, Martin," she whispered. "Even if I wanted to tell you, I couldn't. Besides, it's in the past, and it's not for me to say." There was that phrase again, the one Baurus had used all those months ago. Not for me to say. He sighed.

"Why not?" he asked. She frowned.

"Martin…" she began in warning, her voice filled with tension, but he had started, and now he couldn't stop.

"The most common phrase I hear anyone around here say is that everything is 'not for them to say.' Why? Why all the secrets, the lies? You fuss over when I eat and when I sleep and who's to be with me at all hours, but I'm not allowed to even understand where you're coming from? I'm worrying myself sick over you, but you're keeping so many secrets that it's not just 'Will she make it out of the next Gate?' It's 'What happened to her to make her wake up screaming every night?' and 'How on Nirn did a mere _child _end up in an Imperial Prison cell the night the _Emperor_ fled through it?' and 'What is this operation she's secretly running to hunt down the Mythic Dawn?'"

Her clenched fists shook violently as she rose to her feet, rage contorting her features. "_Shut up_, Martin. Just _shut up_." Her fury was a tangible aura around her, larger than life. "If you're going to be Emperor, you're going to have to learn to keep your mouth shut about things you know _nothing_ about." And then she dashed out of the hall, the main doors slamming shut behind her with enough force to set the hanging katanas to swaying.

"_Damn it!_" Martin bolted to his feet, snatching up her discarded robe and heading toward the doors. "Baurus, _please_." The Blade had begun to follow, but mercifully remained inside.

He found her up on the wall, facing out over the Great Forest. Her shoulders were shaking, and he thought it was from the cold, as tiny snowflakes were steadily raining downward, but then he heard the sobs. "Lily." The sobs abruptly cut off.

"_Get away from me_." And they began again.

"Lily, please. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." There was no response, and he inched a step closer. "Lily, please. It's freezing out here." He was shivering in his thick woolen robes, while she was dressed only in thin linen—and barefoot. "Lily?" He held out the robe, brushing her arm, and she snatched it without even turning around.

He stood silently as she shrugged into it, even as the brutal winter night roared around him. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I did." Her breath came in shallow gasps as she attempted to stifle the sobs.

"_Damn it_, Martin," she managed. "Why can't you understand? I _can't say anything._ You know how that would end? Badly. _Really _badly. And not just for me, but for you, and for everyone I've ever cared about, and…and…" But her words were lost as she began crying again.

Damn it. He hadn't wanted it to go this way. He really hadn't. But of course, just as she'd said, he couldn't keep his mouth shut, and now it seemed like the only way to even _attempt_ to resolve anything was to forge straight ahead. "Lily, you _can_."

"Don't you ever _listen_—" she began, but he cut her off.

"No, Lily, really. _You_ listen. You can tell me—because I already know."

"Know _what_?" she choked out, and he took a deep breath. This was it. No turning back now.

"That you're part of the Dark Brotherhood." The crying stopped.

Suddenly, he realized this had been a really, _really_ bad idea. Confronting an assassin alone in the dark in the middle of a snowstorm—what kind of _idiot _did that? It must have been the Xarxes—toying with his head, giving him a damn _death wish_. Suddenly, he wished he'd listened to her all those times she told him to rest, to get himself away from its influence. _Well, Mehrunes Dagon. It seems you win, after all._

"I would deny that, but I know you're not the kind of man who goes around making unfounded accusations." He didn't even recognize the voice coming from her mouth—cool, smooth, ringing with a quiet authority. Slowly, she turned around, but she was plastering herself flat back against the wall, not lunging at him and burying a blade in his throat.

"I can't be taken in alive, Martin." The faintest hint of Lily broke through the Assassin's voice, but then, to his shock, she was scrambling atop the wall. "When my replacement takes over, the protocols I've put in place will be broken down. She's a decent sort, but I can't guarantee you won't have any trouble from her. I trust Baurus will take care of you, and…well, Burd's men know how to close Gates."

"No!" he blurted out in horror. "Lily, this is something that _really is _not for me to say. I'm not going to tell anyone." She crouched there, staring at him as if trying to determine whether or not he was telling the truth. "If I was, why would I have confronted you directly? I would have gone to Jauffre, or to _somebody_. Why would I tell my bodyguard to stay behind?"

"Suddenly I have a very hard time believing you, Martin." Her voice was loaded with bitterness.

"Lily, please. Come inside. I can explain." It'd been the hand. That tiny little hand that seemed to show up everywhere around her—stamped on her saddle, engraved on the neck clasp of her robe, scratched into the hilt of that dagger she always had on her. He'd spent weeks researching it, looking through every single one of the library's texts without seeing mention of it before remembering where he'd seen it before.

He shuffled closer and slowly stretched out a hand. "Please, Lily. I'll explain everything. I promise." She continued to stare balefully at him, her gaze never leaving his. But then she lifted her own hand and took his, allowing him to pull her down from the wall and lead her inside, up to his quarters where they both sat down on that enormous feather bed.

She listened quietly with misty eyes as he told his story, and when he got to the end, she was crying. He didn't understand why, but then she told him her tale. The cold hand that closed over his heart didn't fade away when it was over, but she smiled sadly at him and told him she understood. She didn't need to, though. He knew she did. And she didn't pull away when he kissed her.


	43. Chapter 40: The Boy in the Dark Hood

Chapter 40: The Boy in the Dark Hood

_Martin_

When First Seed arrived, the icy winds would let up, and sun rays would begin to crack the clouds. Temperatures would rise during the day, and by the afternoons, it would be almost balmy, effectively melting the spring snows. And as the melted snow softened the earth, the farmers would take to their fields in the early afternoon sunshine to plant the first seeds of spring. That is, if you lived in the country. When you lived in Kvatch, he thought miserably as he trudged along, the winds were bone-chilling and blustering as ever—only with the temptation of sunny skies to add insult to injury.

Eighteen-year-old Martin gripped the sides of his cloak in attempt to keep it wrapped around him, but the wind caught the hem and ran with it, leaving only his upper torso covered. He groaned in frustration as he adjusted his grip on the basket, trying to hold on to both. He would have just released the cloak, but he was certain he'd be strangled it he did so.

Bassianus Valus nodded in greeting as he turned the corner and entered the marketplace. "Good day, Martin," the guard called. Martin returned the nod.

"Good day to you, Mr. Valus. How's…" He hesitated, but quickly recovered. "…your son?" Mrs. Valus had brought the boy into the Chapel with a raging fever the other day, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember his name.

"He's doing just fine now. His fever broke in the night." The guard smiled as icy rays of sunlight practically glinted off his white cuirass. "Pass our thanks along to Oleta, will you?"

"Of course." The guard tipped his head again, but Martin had already been swept up in the crowd.

Oleta had sent him to the market with a very specific list, and he knew from experience what the atmosphere around the Chapel would be like for the next several days if he didn't follow her instructions exactly. But as he fumbled to retrieve it from his pocket, the wind snatched hold of it and tore it from his grasp. Letting out a curse that made several people in the area turn to stare, he released his hold on his cloak and sprinted after it. But there were people _everywhere_, and he lost sight of it within seconds. Standing in the middle of the market with his cloak flapping around his neck like the wings of deformed, overgrown bird, he muttered another curse.

Wrestling his cloak until he managed to loop it around his arm, he stomped through the market, gripping the basket handle so tightly it strained beneath his grip. Oleta preferred the bread from that vendor from Shetcombe; he knew that much at least. But the eggs: did she want the ones from Wariel or from that little farm out near Sutch? The skies brightened as he continued making his purchases; his mood, on the other hand, only darkened. He was quickly running out of septims, and he was absolutely certain he was getting the list all wrong. But he was haggling with a meat vendor when he first saw him.

He was facing the wall that surrounded the castle's moat, and at first, it was a dark shape that appeared in his vision as he argued, rolling his eyes skyward. But then he did a double take, and realized there was a person up there. It was a boy—young, maybe only about thirteen or fourteen—who was crouching on top of the wall, propped against the stone as though he didn't have a care in the world. Or at least Martin guessed he was young, as half his face was obscured by the shadow of a black hood. His presence was incredibly distracting as Martin continued to haggle, as he found his gaze continually flitting upward. In the end, he was fairly certain he'd been overcharged, but when he glanced back up again after collecting his package, the boy was gone.

He'd just collected a final sack of turnips and was headed back toward the chapel when he heard the shouts. He looked up, searching for their source when something heavy slammed into him. "_Ooof!_" He staggered, losing his grip on the turnips as he was nearly knocked off his feet. Teetering precariously for a moment, he regained his balance just in time to see the sack split open and the turnips roll in every direction—and to register the person clinging to his arm. "What the—" he began, but another voice pushed past his.

"I didn't, I swear! Ask the priest here." The boy from the wall had the sleeve of his robe in a death grip, and Martin looked up from him to see a very disgruntled guard approaching.

"Nice try," Valus snapped. He reached for the boy, but he neatly sprang back, gripping Martin's arm tighter than ever.

"You have no proof, and you know it! Go on, tell him." It took Martin a second to realize he was being addressed. He blinked at the boy, taking in a pair of narrowed coal-black eyes, then turned to the guard.

"Martin?" The man's face had softened somewhat as he turned his attention to the young layman. Martin frowned at the boy, then swallowed.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Valus," he said politely. "I don't understand what the problem is here." He made direct eye contact, forcing on a small half-smile. Lying shouldn't come so naturally to a priest, he thought vaguely, but his curiosity had been piqued. Valus' frown returned.

"One of the merchants reported seeing him steal from her stand," he said slowly. "However, he claims he was with _you_." Skepticism was written across his entire face: in the purse of his lips, in the arch of his eyebrows. But Martin found himself shrugging.

"He was loitering about earlier this morning. I told him I'd give him five septims if he helped carry all this. I'd just sent him to get another sack for the turnips. I knew it was going to rip." He pointed at the fallen vegetables, which were now being smashed beneath passersby's trampling feet.

"Is that so." Valus' arms were crossed over his chest now.

"Would a priest lie?" the boy demanded, his tone darkening dangerously. Who _was _this kid? The boy's grip on Martin's arm was now twisting it slightly, and he realized he wasn't being cowered behind so much as being _taken hostage_. It was all Martin could do not to snicker out loud.

"Really, Mr. Valus," he said instead. "Everything's fine. I'm sorry if he...got in the way, or…or caused any sort of problem." The man's eyes still glittered suspiciously, but his posture had relaxed.

"All right," he relented. "You take care now, Martin." He paused. "And lose that hood, boy," he added. "It makes folks nervous." He turned and walked back to his post, and then out of nowhere, the ground slammed into Martin's back, forcing the air out of his lungs in a single painful rush.

"_Akatosh's flaming beard_," he gasped out painfully, fire surging through his lungs. The boy had pushed him, knocking him down behind a stall. He angrily began to scramble to his feet, but the boy shoved him back down again.

"Shut up and don't move," he hissed. He was crouched in front of him, peering out around the corner. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him, as he stood and gestured to Martin. "Apologies," he said with a smirk. "I always find it's best to get out of sight quickly after tense situations. Thank, by the way." He turned as if to leave, but Martin shot out an arm and snatched hold of the boy's shoulder.

"Hold up just a minute," he said irritably. "Help me pick these up." He pointed to the scattered turnips. A disdainful frown crossed the boy's face, but he did as requested, bending and collecting the ruined vegetables. "You mind explaining to me what _that_ just was?" Martin suggested, allowing a note of venom to sneak into his tone. "I'd like to know what I've gotten myself into. Where are your parents? Who are you?" But the boy only scoffed.

"The name is Lucien Lachance," he said grandly, as though Martin was supposed to be impressed. "And my parents haven't been among the living for quite some time now." An orphan, then. Martin felt a small flash of sympathy. Growing up in the streets couldn't have been easy. But something didn't seem right about that, and as they both continued scooping up turnips, Martin realized it was his clothes. They were dirty and worn, but they were clearly of good quality. And come to think of it, he didn't know of any families named Lachance in Kvatch, and he knew of just about everybody. Granted, perhaps they hadn't been particularily devout, but most people would eventually have _some_ sort of dealings with the Chapel.

"You're not from around here, are you, Lucien?" he commented dryly. And to his surprise, for the first time the boy appeared nervous.

"I hail from County Bruma," he said casually. But it was somehow too casual, intentionally lazy, as though he was afraid he would be pressed further. "I've recently relocated." Martin snorted.

"'Relocated?' On your own, at the ripe old age of what, twelve?" And the boy shot him such a scornful look Martin actually felt himself wither a tiny bit beneath it.

"I'm _fifteen_," he spat, acid dripping from the words. Martin raised his eyebrows.

"Ah." He wasn't sure what else to say, but the turnips had all been gathered into the tattered remains of the sack. He carefully hoisted it in one arm, but groaned when he turned to lift the basket. It had taken the brunt of his fall, and now the bread was flattened and the eggs were smashed, the whites dripping out through the wicker. He gritted his teeth together, and willed himself not to scream at the boy lurking beside him. Instead, he turned to him and smiled patiently.

"Lucien, what did you steal from that woman?" And the boy actually had the audacity to look offended.

"I _didn't_," he began, but Martin interrupted.

"Don't lie," he said. "Not to a priest. You can tell me, or I can call Valus back over." The boy's eyes narrowed, but the threat was enough.

"Just this." He reached inside his shirt and produced a small packet of something. Martin frowned.

"What is that?"

"Apples." Lucien carefully tore open the top and held the package out so Martin could inspect its contents. "Just dried ones, but it was better than nothing." He was glaring now, but Martin understood—at least he thought he did. Resorting stealing food had to be a low point—for anyone. He sighed.

"Here." He fumbled in the coinpurse at his belt for the last few septims. "You're going to take these to that woman, and you're going to pay for those. And then you're going to apologize." The boy's eyes widened slightly, but he quickly regained his composure.

"Are you _insane_?" he snapped. "There's no way I'm doing that. She'll have the guards on me in a second."

"Then you can go explain yourself to Valus instead." Martin tried to cross his arms over his chest—not a very successful gesture when they were full. Lucien rolled his eyes, but reached out to take the coins anyway.

"Fine," he said icily. He spun on his heel, but paused. "Thank you. Again. For covering for me." And then he disappeared into the crowd. What had he said again? Something about tense situations requiring quick exits? Martin rolled his eyes, and headed for the chapel.

* * *

As predicted, Oleta was irritated at the incorrect goods he brought home—and downright furious at the state of them. So he found himself spending much of his time in the next week avoiding her—which meant, despite the bone-knifing wind, spending as much time as possible outside the chapel. It was a few days after the marketplace incident that he went out for an afternoon walk and spotted a familiar figure seated atop the pedestal of the statue of Antus Pinder.

"Lucien," he greeted as he approached. The boy smirked down at him.

"Martin," he acknowledged. "What could possibly drive you from your refuge of worship on such a fine day?" As if to emphasize his point, a particularly forceful gust of wind swept through the square. Martin drew his cloak closer around him, but smiled patiently.

"Did you talk to the merchant?" he asked. The boy drew a foot up under his knee, leaning back with a roguish grin.

"Not many words were exchanged," he said breezily. "But she received payment in full for the apples." A devilish glint flicked across his eyes, and Martin frowned.

"You didn't do it, did you," he said flatly.

"I snuck up to her lockbox and put the money in. She counted her inventory at the end of the day, and everything was accounted for. It's fine."

"That wasn't the point," Martin began, his voice rising, but Lucien interrupted.

"Then what was the point, hmm? For me to learn my lesson?" He stared down at him haughtily. "I'm not stupid, Martin," he said disapprovingly. "I understand the moral implications of my actions. I simply would prefer _not _to starve. Why should I turn myself over like a lamb for slaughter? If I'm sent to prison, I'll make criminal connections that I'll be forced to turn to when I'm released. There's no respectable work available to man with no marketable skills and a history of jail time. Is that what you would have me reduced to?"

Martin stared up at the boy, this shrewd boy impossibly wise beyond his years. His speech had left Martin feeling unsettled—mostly because he knew he was right. But he still found a frown creeping over his own face. "Is that your plan, then?" he asked tightly. "To simply never get caught?" The boy scoffed.

"Like I said, I'm not stupid. I know there won't always be some idiot priest around to rescue me. Besides, I've found work," he finished smugly.

Martin wasn't sure how he felt at being called an idiot. But instead, he forced himself to smile patiently. "Oh? How does a fifteen-year-old find steady employment?" he asked.

"At the Lazy Dog." Lucien jabbed a finger across the square, indicating the raucous tavern down the street. "I serve the ale at nights, and they let me sleep in the basement." He shrugged, but the note of pride in his tone was evident.

"You should be in school," Martin pointed out, crossing his arms over his chest. Instantly, the boy's face was transformed into a harsh glare.

"There really is no pleasing you, is there?" he snapped. "First it's that I need to have honest work instead of stealing, and then it's that I need schooling instead of the honest work you said I needed in the first place. No _wonder_ people hate priests." He added that last bit under his breath, but Martin was undeterred.

"You said you serve at nights," he pointed out. "The Chapel offers lessons during the day, for children in the city and the surrounding towns. They're free," he added quickly. Lucien snorted.

"Do _you_ teach these lessons?" he asked with a smirk. "I can just see you helping the smaller children read through _ABCs for Barbarians_." He snickered, but Martin just rolled his eyes.

"I only just became too old for the lessons myself," he said wryly. "Although I joined the Imperial Clergy at fifteen, so then my lessons became much more independent and specific."

"Maybe that's what I should do," Lucien murmured, and then Martin couldn't help it—he actually laughed out loud. He expected Lucien to grow angry, but instead, he saw a flicker of amusement cross the boy's face. "Perhaps not, hmm?" And then Lucien himself laughed.

"Think about it, though," Martin urged once their laughter had subsided. "Too much knowledge can never be bad thing, right?"

"I suppose not." Lucien frowned. "Perhaps I'll consider it."

"Good." Martin smiled. "Weekdays in the Chapel, at eight o'clock." He turned and continued on his walk, but it didn't surprise him when he glanced back over his shoulder to see that Lucien had disappeared.

He didn't see anything of Lucien for the rest of the week, not at the Chapel lessons, and not at the market. He felt vaguely disappointed in the boy, and also a little frustrated. He was a complete mystery; clearly he was the product of some extraordinary circumstances. He was intelligent and well-spoken, yet shabby, new in town, and on his own. Despite his concern, Martin resolved not to worry about him anymore—but then he turned up in the Chapel.

It was a Tirdas morning, and he was praying by the altar of Julianos. The lessons were going on behind him, and the sounds were nothing but a vague background buzz. But then he heard the chapel doors thud shut, and then the nearest priestess paused.

"I'm sorry, can I help you?" he heard her say.

"That depends." Martin would know that voice anywhere. "Are you teaching anything worth learning?" He turned around to see Lucien standing there, still wearing his hood. The priestess he was speaking with wore an absolutely baffled expression.

"I, ah…we're talking about the invasion of the Battlespire," she said slowly. "And later we're going to be calculating the effect areas of life detection spells." Lucien slowly nodded his head, stroking his chin.

"It sounds agreeable," he said. "I suppose I'll join in." And then he sat right down in one of the pews, jostling another boy over. The poor kid just stared at him, mouth slightly agape, and Martin had to fight to keep a straight face.

"Well," the priestess said awkwardly. "Can anyone think of some ways the Council of Mages' policies might have contributed to the devastation?"

Martin retreated to the Chapel hall not long after that, and when he reemerged, lessons were over for the day. But that night, as he prepared for bed, Oleta knocked on his door. "May I come in?" she asked gently.

"Of course." He leaned back in his chair and gestured her into the room. "Is something the matter?" She shut the door and sat down on his bed, smoothing her skirts before replying.

"Martin, who was that boy who showed up to lessons today?" she asked. Martin frowned.

"What's he done?" he asked warily.

"Oh, nothing." Oleta smiled. "Sister Bertha said he was an absolute delight to have in class. He's blunt, but for the most part his manners are refreshing. And she said he was surprisingly knowledgeable on most of the subjects they covered today. Apparently he made some sophisticated points in their discussions. She was concerned, however, when she asked him about himself after class and he was quite reluctant to talk about his family." She paused. "But he did say that his good friend Martin told him about the lessons."

Martin sighed, rising from his desk and crossing the room to sit down next to the woman who'd spent the past eighteen years caring for him. "I don't know," he admitted. "I met him in the marketplace a few weeks ago. He helped me pick up the turnips when I dropped them." He decided the less Oleta knew about that situation, the better. "I've seen him around town on occasion since. He said he was new to the area, so I told him about the lessons."

"Did he say anything about his parents?" Concern was etched beween Oleta's eyebrows, her empathy stemming from her healer's instinct.

"He said they've been dead for a while. I think he's staying with relatives, though," he lied. This conversation was turning out to be more full of falsities than he would have liked, but somehow, he felt like a traitor revealing Lucien's secrets. It was clearly a topic the boy felt uncomfortable discussing, and he couldn't imagine him being too pleased if he found out a stranger knew all about his personal life. Oleta nodded, but her frown remained.

"Well, these relatives don't seem to be doing very good of a job of looking after him," she declared. "Honestly, who takes in a child and doesn't see about getting him into school!" She shook her head, and Martin stifled a smile. "I'm glad you're being a friend to him, Martin," she added, patting his hand. "You make this Chapel proud." She rose with a smile and exited the room, softly shutting the door behind her. Martin sighed. He didn't see how putting up with Lucien made the Chapel proud, but Oleta's praise was hard-earned, so he'd take it.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, he often found himself running into Lucien after lessons, and surprisingly, striking up conversations with him. Sister Bertha had been right—the boy _was _intelligent, and Martin began to genuinely look forward to their conversations.

But the weeks began to drift toward summer, and when lessons ended for the year, Martin saw very little of Lucien. A few times in the market, he thought he saw a flash of a black hood, but he couldn't be certain. As he prayed in the chapel one morning, however, the reverent silence was broken as the doors were slammed open. "Why Lucien, what's the matter?" he heard one of the priests ask.

"I need to speak with Brother Martin. Right away. It's important." The boy sounded panicked, and Martin felt his heart rate rise a little. Had something happened to him?

"I'm sorry, Brother Martin is in prayer…" he heard the priest saying, but he paused as Martin approached.

"Lucien? What is it?" he asked quickly. The boy was panting, and nervously glancing all around him.

"You've got to come with me. I need your help." He spoke rapidly, his dark eyes wide with horror.

"Of course." Martin immediately stepped forward, glancing over his shoulder at the priest. "Tell the primate I—" But he never got to finish the sentence as Lucien yanked his arm, hauling him out the door.

"Lucien, what's happened? Are you all right?" he asked anxiously as the doors thumped shut behind them.

"Oh, I'm perfectly fine. Apologies. It was the only way I could think of to get you out of there." Any note of anxiety had completely vanished from his voice, and Martin gritted his teeth.

"So you lied." He was still being dragged along, climbing up further into the city toward the wealthy district. The sounds of the arena were getting closer, growing from a faint buzz to a tangible roar.

"No. This is important." Lucien stopped suddenly, and released his grip on Martin's arm. "If you want to go back and pray, feel free. But we're going to see an arena match, so make your choice and make it quickly." He couldn't disguise how incredibly pleased with himself he was at that revelation.

"You came into the chapel and _lied_ to both Brother Remen and myself…to get me to come to an arena match?"

"I didn't lie; it is important," Lucien corrected. "This is the _arena_ we're talking about here." Martin sighed.

"And _why _is the arena so important?" he asked wearily.

"Because it's the most heavily regulated and profitable industry in Tamriel. Because it showcases some of the best fighters in Tamriel, and my father always said combat training is an essential part of a gentleman's education. And because the Camlorn Dragons are in town this week." He grinned, and Martin groaned inwardly. So he was excited over his favorite arena team being in town—a fairly normal sentiment for a fifteen-year-old. At least it was better than skulking around frightening citizens. Also, this was the first he'd mentioned of his father. So Martin sighed, and relented.

"All right," he sighed, falling in step beside Lucien. As they approached the arena, Martin headed toward the gates, but Lucien snatched hold of his arm.

"Not that way." He quickly motioned to Martin, who followed, ignoring the sinking sensation that they were about to do something illegal.

Sure enough, after a trek around the outer perimeter of the structure itself, they found themselves on a path directly between the arena and the city walls. Lucien slowed and appeared to examine something, then beckoned. "Here we are."

Martin stared, aghast, as Lucien pointed straight up. "You have _got _to be joking me." But Lucien shook his head, unfazed.

"There are footholds the entire way up. Ladies first?" Martin couldn't even form a retort. There was no way he was climbing up the side of the arena. "The first one's right there." The boy huffed impatiently. "Hurry up, Martin. It's starting."

So Martin carefully placed his foot in the little chink of rock, and reached up to grip another. "The next one's to your left. See it?" Lucien called. The entire process followed a similar vein, with Lucien calling out instructions and Martin growing shakier and shakier as he neared the top. He finally sprawled on the broad edge with a sigh of relief, and Lucien followed only moments later.

"How did you get up here so fast?" He still felt a little dizzy. They were almost high enough to be even with the city walls, and the wind was whipping past them.

"I grew up on a farm, Martin," Lucien chuckled. "When I wanted to have fun, I didn't read books about the Nine Divines, or…sing hymns, or…or comfort orphans." He snorted, clearly thinking his little jibe to be quite clever. "I went outside and climbed trees." There was a blast from a trumpet, and he shot over to the edge facing the arena. "Oh, it's starting."

They peered out between the clefts in the wall, just as an announcer's voice rang, shouting a spew of nonsense Martin didn't really understand. Then a roar rose up from the crowd, and a man dressed in ostentatious red armor strode out into the center. He carried a massive battle axe with a wicked curved blade, and he raised it above his head, eliciting another wave of shouts from the crowd. A few moments later, a figure in equally ostentatious purple armor stepped out, and Martin recognized it as one of Kvatch's combatants as the cheers and screams magnified. The announcer shouted again, and the battle was on.

"This isn't really a favorable match for him." The noise from the crowds was deafening, but Martin could just manage to hear Lucien's explanation beside his ear. The Kvatch combatant carried a mage's staff, and was zapping spells from it, forcing the Camlorn combatant to dance out of the way to avoid being struck. "He's not used to being evasive—with a weapon like that, he's going to prefer direct, heavy movements. But you can tell he's good just the same. He wouldn't have lasted this long otherwise." Martin just nodded and pretended to understand what was happening.

Then suddenly, the mage threw aside her staff, and the crowd gasped. But she flung out an arm, and then a portal appeared before her. And a heavy, lizard-like beast charged out and trampled the Camlorn combatant. The announcer's voice rang out, and another figure dashed out into the center. It crouched beside Camlorn, gestured wildly, then ran to Kvatch and grabbed one of her hands, holding it aloft as a whole new explosion of noise flooded the arena.

"Is he dead?" Martin called over the racket, pointing to the fallen Camlorn, who was being carried away on a stretcher. Lucien shook his head.

"Not at this level—not anymore at least. Only when they reach the top ranks in the Imperial City do they have death matches." Martin nodded, but then he was distracted by the announcer calling the next match.

In this one, the combatants appeared to be evenly matched (or so Lucien said)—until the Camlorn combatant suddenly disappeared. Martin gasped out along with the crowd—but then she reappeared behind her opponent with a blade to his throat. Screams rose up from the crowd as Camlorn was announced the winner, and Lucien burst out into a fit of laughter. "Illusion magic," he chortled. "Not illegal, but definitely frowned upon."

The matches went on for a few more hours, and then the announcer called out a break until the evening matches. "That's when they all bring out their best fighters," Lucien explained. He sighed. "I wish I could see it," he added wistfully. "However. Now we have to get down from here."

"Don't tell me we have to climb _down_ now," Martin groaned. "That's almost worse than climbing up." Lucien grinned.

"No, there's a trapdoor on the other side. We'll go down through there, but we need to wait until the stands empty out."

"Good." Martin nodded, pleased, and they leaned back against the stone to wait. The stone was warm beneath them, and the wind had died down to a pleasant breeze. The sounds of the arena began to die down, and Martin could finally hear himself think again. "So you grew up on a farm—but your father wanted you to be a gentleman," he said out of nowhere. Without the excitement in the arena, he found himself pondering over Lucien's revelations of his past.

"Ah." Lucien gave a small uncomfortable laugh. "My father came from High Rock nobility, but they owned some land in Cyrodiil. He fell in love with a Cyrodiilic girl, and so they settled down at the old family farm." A bitterness had crept into his tone, and When Martin glanced over at him, he was surprised to see the hardness across his features.

"And?"

"And _what_?" Lucien's frown was deepening, but Martin pressed on.

"And there must be a reason why you're here and not there."

Lucien was staring straight ahead now. "I'm not there because they're not," he said blandly, but Martin could hear the anger boiling under the surface. "And without them, there's no proof that I should be, either." He exhaled, and turned to Martin.

"My father's will is missing," he said shortly. "At least the most recent version is. The version that states everything he owns goes to me." He paused. "The original version, however—the one from before I was born—is quite the opposite. That's the one where he leaves everything to my mother."

Martin frowned. "I don't see how that makes a difference," he said slowly. "If you're their son..."

"My mother was a commoner. She didn't have any property to speak of, so she didn't have a will. So when my father died, according to the old will, everything belonged to her. But since she didn't have a will..." Martin noticed his hands were balling into fists. "Her family took everything.

"I still don't understand."

Lucien practically growled. "I am the only son, yet if I am not mentioned in the will, that's the equivalent of _writing me out of it_." His voice had gone low and dangerous. "It's as though he expressedly stated that I was to get _nothing_." He fell silent.

"But the will was there," he said suddenly. "After they died, I checked where my father had hidden it, and it was _there_." He slammed a fist down on the stone, and Martin winced. "But then they showed up.

"'They?'" Martin pushed.

"My mother's family," he said disgustedly. "Her sister, her husband, and their brats. They show up for the funeral, and the next day at the reading of the will, my aunt says _she _has it. Needless to say, it wasn't the correct version." He snorted. "I tried to explain, but they wouldn't listen to me. Nobody listens to a twelve-year-old kid. 'Poor dear,' they say, 'he just lost his parents. He's only acting out, pay him no mind.'" He rolled his eyes.

"I checked, though, Martin. I checked immediately after. It had been there the day before, but then it was just _gone_." His voice had gone very quiet. "She took it. I know she did. She took it, and then just like that, Applewatch is _hers_." He spat the word out.

"They moved in, and let me stay 'out of the kindness of their hearts.'" He snorted. "I was their slave for almost three years. And then I decided I'd had enough. There was a break in the weather—and in County Bruma, there _are _no breaks in the weather. So I took that as my sign, and I came here." He stared daggers into the stone.

"I'll wait, though," he said, his voice low. "I'll wait as long as I need to. Even if I never see Applewatch again. It doesn't have to be now. It doesn't even have to be me. But somehow—someday—they will pay."

And Martin felt his blood run cold at the dangerous voice emanating from Lucien's mouth. His face had gone dark, and for a moment, Martin wasn't even sure he recognized his friend. But then he was scrambling to his feet. "It's cleared out now," he said. He turned back to Martin with that familiar smirk. "Shall we go?"


	44. Chapter 41: Five Years Pass

**A/N: I toyed with the idea of rating this chapter M because it involves Sanguine worship - infer from that what you will. But in the end, I decided against it. There's nothing explicit, only implied, and nothing's really any worse than anything I've included so far. **

**Also, it's incredibly nerve-wracking writing about young Martin and Lucien - trying to think how their traits would translate to their younger selves is a lot harder than I thought it'd be. I hope y'all are enjoying these chapters, and I hope I'm doing their characters justice.**

* * *

Chapter 41: Five Years Pass

_Martin_

There was that tapping noise again, like a hammer rapping against the side of his skull. Martin gritted his teeth together, and tried to focus his attention on the sniffling woman in front of him. "I really am sorry, Mrs. gra-Durga," he said patiently. "Like I said, Durzum was a good man."

"But _why_?" she sobbed. "Why _him_, of all people? He was kind, he was generous, he was the dearest man to ever live!"

"I know," Martin soothed. "Durzum meant a lot to you. Many people will miss him." The tapping again. He glared in the direction of the entryway.

"He always gave me flowers for my birthday; tiger lilies, a whole big bunch of them. And do you know what, today I was making the plans for my birthday luncheon, and I was thinking of using them as a centerpiece. And then I started to think, and do you know what I said to myself? I said, 'There'll be no more tiger lilies.'" She broke into a fresh wave of sobs, and Martin could only stare at her helplessly.

"I know, ma'am. I know." Gods, would _nothing _silence that damned _noise_? A loud sigh followed it this time, and Martin rolled his eyes.

"I just don't understand why the gods had to take him! Why, Brother Martin?" Her foggy golden eyes lifted to his beseechingly. "Why did my Durzum have to die?" The tempo of the tapping had increased, and Martin let out an exasperated sigh. He'd had enough of this.

"Ma'am," he said. "Durzum was drunk out of his mind when he climbed up on that roof, and everybody was too afraid of his temper to try and stop him. His own stupidity claimed his life—not the will of the gods." And then he turned and stalked toward the chapel entrance, leaving the widow to stare after him in shock, her mouth hanging slightly agape. He exited the building, shoving the culprit of the noise out the door ahead of him.

"Insulting an old lady's dead husband?" Lucien raised his eyebrows. "That was harsh." Martin glared at him as they hurried through the streets.

"Maybe I would have been able to be more tactful if you hadn't been wearing my nerves thin the entire time," he snapped. Lucien shrugged.

"We're late. We were supposed to be there half an hour ago." Upon completing the Chapel's lessons, Lucien had—upon Sister Bertha's recommendation—entered the Mages Guild. And Martin, after much pleading with both the primate and Oleta, had been allowed to join too. _Why does a priest need to study magic? _Oleta had asked doubtfully. But Martin had persisted. _I'm not looking to make a career of it. I just want to learn more. It could come in handy someday. What if a parishioner needs some sort of magical service but can't afford it directly through the Guild? _Eventually, they'd relented, and he was now an Associate.

They quickly made their way through the balmy summer night, weaving through the streets of one of the wealthier neighborhoods and climbing the steps of the Brown Fox. They stepped inside to hear the low murmur of conversation and the light clinking of fine dishware. Martin instantly felt his nerves soothed as the familiar atmosphere settled over him. This had been their habit every Loredas night for the past eight months—since Lucien had been named Apprentice—and the blessed few hours to come were the only time he ever had for himself.

A tall, slender Imperial at the bar turned around as they entered. "Ah, Lucien. Martin," he acknowledged with a dip of his head. "We were beginning to think you weren't coming."

"We have yet to miss a meeting, Chiron," Lucien said smoothly, but Martin could detect a flicker of annoyance in his tone. "Martin's priestly duties were…rather demanding this evening."

"I see." The man paused. "I was just fetching more drinks. Everyone's upstairs, in the usual place. You can go ahead up." They murmured their acknowledgement, and turned to the stairs at the corner.

Ascending to the semi-dark hallway, they made their way down to the door at the very end on the right. Lucien rapped sharply twice, then once more. "Come in!" called out a voice, and they entered—only to both be wrapped up in a boisterous bear-hug.

"Friends!" Demetrius' voice boomed uncomfortably close to their ears. "Come, sit down! Can I get either of you drink?" Martin politely shook his head, declining, but Lucien soon had a glass of wine in hand, and when Chiron returned from downstairs, the discussion resumed.

These discussions were his haven, the one place he felt focused and energized. But on this night, what was normally a sophisticated conversation turned into a petty squabble as they discussed the mechanics of a particular spell. Tempers rose along with voices, until Martin gave up trying to reason and simply slumped back in his chair, wishing he'd taken Demetrius up on his offer of a drink. Chiron had actually risen out of his chair and was pounding the table with his fist when an unfamiliar female voice rang out.

"No, you're wrong, the both of you. It's not the _binding_ aspect that pulls creatures from Oblivion. Think of how hard it's been to control them in the past." Martin craned his neck down the table, trying to catch a glimpse of the mysterious speaker, but he was sitting beside Gregor, and the man's sheer _mass_ was blocking his view. "If the binding isn't strong enough to control them, there's no way it could pull them from Oblivion. _That's_ the hard part—getting through the barriers between planes."

"Then how do they even get across in the first place?" snapped a woman seated across from Lucien. "It's not like they come skipping across on their own."

"Planes aren't _meant_ to be crossed, Marcella," the first woman objected. "It takes powerful magic to break the barriers, even if only for a few seconds. And it's not a single barrier: it's many. You can't just tear a hole straight through it. It's layer upon layer of energies, and sifting through it is a complicated process. That's the entire nature of Conjuration. You have to have the intelligence to understand what exactly it is you're doing—_and _the willpower to see it through _and _the endurance to hold on to it once it's finished."

"Yes, you have a _wonderful _grasp of the theory," Marcella said, condescendence oozing out of her sugary sweet tone. "Practice, however, is an entirely different matter."

But the woman didn't seem to be backing down. "Yes, it should _feel_ like one fluid process—that's when you know it's done right. But in reality, it's not." She paused. "Think, for example, of when a Prince is called into our world." Prince? Martin frowned, confused, but the woman continued. "Nobody _binds _a Daedric prince. They can only be summoned, and even then, they may choose not to respond."

"Well, then why don't you summon one. Now. Right here," Marcella spat, also shoving away from the table. Martin stiffened, but the woman laughed.

"Don't be an idiot. Princes can't manifest themselves in our world; they possess too much energy. They can't sift through the way lesser creatures can. And as I said, you can't _make _a Prince do anything."

"But you can call for them," Demetrius interjected. "And if they _do _decide to answer the call, _how_ exactly do they answer—if they _can't_?"

"Through the minds of mortals," the woman answered without hesitation. "That's why you always hear of cults of Daedra worshipers. It's their point of contact with our world." Chiron chose that moment to speak up.

"In theory," he said slowly, glancing around at every person in the room, "all it takes is an offering." He paused. "If you can find the shrine of a Prince, and complete a simple ritual, you could make contact. A telepathic connection of sorts."

"Is it just a fragment of their consciousness that can siphon through, then?" someone else spoke up.

"Exactly." Chiron nodded. "In fact, I'm thinking this could be a fun little exercise." He began to circle the table. "We've heard a great many viewpoints here tonight, but what if we were to actually put it into practice? To see for ourselves?" Martin's heart practically stopped, his blood running cold as he comprehended Chiron's words. It was one thing to talk theories, but this…this was talking about actually _summoning a Daedric Prince _for crying out loud!

He was starting to feel light-headed, the room oddly close all of a sudden. He was a priest of Akatosh. He couldn't sit here and listen to this a minute longer. He was rising out of his chair when Lucien's hand closed over the sleeve of his robe. The Imperial's eyes were filled with a dark warning that clearly read, _Just what do you think you're doing?_

"_I have to go,_" he murmured quietly. Chiron was still prattling on, his voice a distant, uncomfortable buzz, but then another voice spoke.

"Surely the priest isn't taking his leave already?" He turned to the opposite end of the table where the speaker—the woman who had been so knowledgeable—was standing up as well. And his breath caught in his throat as he caught sight of her.

An Imperial with a gentle face stared back at him, a small frown arching her brow. Pale blond hair was tightly pulled back into a bun, dark eyes fixed on him beseechingly. She hadn't been to these meetings before, he was certain of it. He would have remembered, he thought as her rosy lips pursed.

"Ah, of course." Chiron stopped ranting. "You arrived late, Martin; you didn't have the chance to meet our newest member." He circled the far end of the table and placed a hand possessively on the woman's shoulder. Martin felt his jaw tighten.

But the woman stepped out of the grasp easily, the light thud of her shoes on the floorboards almost hypnotic as she swayed toward him. He forced himself to meet her eyes instead of letting his gaze drop to where her robe fit the snuggest. "I'm Elizabeth Jucanis." She extended a hand toward him in greeting. He stared dumbly at it for a moment before mentally kicking himself into action and taking it. "I've been in Morrowind for the past several years—Balmora, to be exact. I've only recently come home to Cyrodiil." She smiled warmly. "And you're the Brother Martin I've heard so much about.

Hearing himself referred to as a priest was enough to brush aside his distraction, and he scowled, quickly dropping her hand. "Yes," he said coolly. "I serve Akatosh in the Chapel. And I have duties I must return to, so if you'll excuse me…" He tried to duck away, but she was still speaking.

"You know, I've always admired priests and their work," she said. "In Morrowind, the class system is so strict that the poor wouldn't even have _access _to healers were it not for the Imperial Cult. And the same goes for many outlanders, really. Many Dunmer aren't exactly welcoming."

"I'm sure the Imperial Cult is grateful for your support," he said coolly. "But now I really must be going." And he darted out of the room before he could meet with any more resistance.

He'd made it down the stairs, out of the building and down the street before he heard the footsteps behind him. He'd known, of course, that Lucien would follow him, but he wasn't in the mood for an argument at the moment. He rolled his eyes and walked faster. "Martin." That was enough to stop him short. "Martin, wait." Growling under his breath, he slowing turned to come face to face with a huffing and puffing Elizabeth Jucanis.

"What is it?" he asked wearily. In the dim light of the streetlamps, he saw her worried frown as she approached.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "You rushed out of there so fast." She looked so anxious he felt the tiniest prickle of guilt. "Is something the matter?" He exhaled a long puff of breath.

"Elizabeth. It is Elizabeth, right?" He hadn't actually forgotten her name, of course, but this wasn't the time to get on first name-basis. She nodded, and he continued. "I'm sorry, but I _cannot _get mixed up in whatever it is you're plotting back there." He was met only with silence, so he continued speaking. "I'm a_ priest_. I've made _vows._ I can't just forsake them to _worship Daedra._" He hissed the last two words out, and to his surprise, a faint smile crossed her face as she laid a hand on his arm.

"Martin, you're thinking about this all wrong," she said gently. "Daedra—all varieties, from minions to Princes—are _energy_. That's what this school _is_: experimentation with subtle manipulations of that energy. And all we're talking about doing is...working with a greater quantity. You're assigning meaning where there is none." She gazed up at him, and something in her gaze was pleading. "If you summoned a scamp, or…or, I don't know—an _axe_—would that be worshiping the Daedra?"

"Of course not," he muttered, but her face instantly brightened.

"See? That's all it is—locating their energy, pulling it through, and latching onto it. And we wouldn't even be going that far." He pursed his lips, and her mouth curved into a genuine smile. "Besides, we don't even know if we'd be able to make it happen. Even if we found a shrine, and the offering and the ritual, there's no guarantee the Prince would actually answer. They do exactly as they please—no more, no less."

When she put it that way… He sighed, and her eyes bored into his earnestly. "And honestly, the entire point of this is to get a better understanding of exactly how conjuring works. You heard some of my theory in there," she laughed, "but Marcella was right about one thing. Theory and practice are quite different." She sighed. "Do you realize that there are only five Conjuration experts in Cyrodiil?" she asked. "What are our chances of every having the opportunity to study under one? This is the only way we have of ever understanding its mysteries: finding out for ourselves."

Martin fought the urge to grit his teeth. The trouble was, she was right. Everything about her theory she'd described added up with what he'd studied on the subject, but without practical applications, they had no way of knowing. And honestly, that was the entire reason he'd been drawn to it in the first place. He loved the challenge of it: the puzzle of completing the spell, and the feeling of power that came from successfully holding it. He loved the mystery surrounding it, the possibility of discovery. And he loved that it was _meaningful_—not countless hours kneeling in the chapel as his words fell on the Divines' deaf ears, or rehashing the same conversations over and over again with the other priests, or even being forced to hide his eye-rolling as one of them ranted on some concept he didn't agree with.

He swore under his breath, then turned to her. "What do you need me to do?

* * *

And so began the months of nonstop research. What began as a Loredas evening gathering turned into three or four nights a week crammed into that stuffy little room above the Brown Fox. His days consisted of being constantly called out by the other priests when he would zone out, thinking about his research. And his nights consisted of a single candle by which he'd pour over _Darkest Darkness _and _The Book of the Daedra_, long after everyone else in the chapel had fallen asleep.

They were making progress, though, as they'd discovered a shrine, north of Skingrad. The past several weeks had been devoted to determining the ritual, but they were having a miserable time trying to find any information on it. Spirits were low, tempers were flaring, and Martin found himself more distracted than ever. But one morning in Frost Fall, he finished his prayers to be met by another priest, telling him he had a visitor.

Lucien stood in the entryway, pacing back and forth frantically. "Martin. A word outside?" he said as he approached. Judging by the look on his face, he wasn't taking no for an answer. So Martin followed him out on to the chapel steps. Lucien glanced around before leaning in close and dropping his voice to a whisper.

"Demetrius found it," was all he said. It was all he needed to say. Martin's eyes widened. "And it's _incredibly _simple. No wonder we had such a hard time finding it," he continued. "Chiron's all worked up, and we're going. Now. Either way, we'll have to stop for the night, but he wants to be on the road by one."

Martin found a frown crossing his face as he pulled away. "Then it's time," he said slowly. Lucien nodded, and for a moment, he thought he saw a flash of sympathy cross his friend's face.

"I've know you're been dreading this," he said. "But think of what you're gaining instead."

Martin sighed, rubbing his temples. "Twenty-three years," he said wearily. Then he squared his shoulders and went back inside the chapel.

The moment he was through the doors, however, the panic hit him. He couldn't believe he was doing this. He headed straight to the chapel hall, ignoring someone who called out his name. Bolting the door to his room behind him, he dug out the old canvas knapsack he'd hidden and began quickly cramming his belongings into it. His books, his clothes…what else did he need? Right—clothes. He quickly changed out of his priest's robe, leaving it neatly folded on the bed. He glanced around the little room a little sadly. This had been his home for twenty-three years—and now he was leaving it all behind, just like that. A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. "Martin? Martin, are you in there?" He swallowed hard. It was time to go. If Lucien could leave behind his family home at fifteen, he could do this.

Oleta was standing outside, wearing an expression of worry. "Martin, Brother Remen said you left with Lucien and came back in here white as a sheet. What is it? Is something wrong?"

He couldn't bring himself to meet her gaze. "Oleta, I'm sorry, but I'm leaving."

"Leaving?" Her tone was puzzled. "Leaving _where_?" Why did this have to be so hard?

"I'm leaving the priesthood, Oleta," he said, as gently as he could manage. "This life isn't for me. I never wanted it in the first place. There are other things I want to accomplish, and I'll never be able to if I remain part of the Imperial Clergy." He edge around her and headed for the stairs.

"Martin," she choked out. He made the mistake of turning to look at her, and winced when he saw the tears in her eyes. "Martin, can we talk about this? Please?" He turned and began climbing the stairs. "Martin!" She grabbed hold of his sleeve, and he forcefully jerked his arm away, causing her to stumble.

"Leave me," he growled. Then he hurried out of the only home he'd ever known. Lucien was waiting for him on the front steps, and mercifully didn't make any comment.

"I have the extra bedroll in my basement," was all he said. Martin nodded wordlessly, and they made their way out the gates to the stables, where the rest of the group was already waiting.

* * *

They reached the shrine by late morning the next day, and approached it warily. The massive beast of stone stood proudly atop its pedestal, a mug clutched in its hand. Beside Martin, Lucien let out a hissing chuckle. "Quite the intimidating one, isn't it?" he muttered with a snort.

"Gather around!" Chiron was calling, dropping his pack in the grass. "All of you, up around the base here!" They followed suit, and once they all stood in place, forming a half-circle around the statue, Chiron produced a bottle. "Cyrodiilic brandy," he said. "Sanguine's offering of choice. And the ritual is deceptively simple. All we do is pour it out and wait." He paused. "This is a monumental endeavor we embark on here today. Are we all ready?" At their nods, he uncorked the bottle and held it aloft. "Sanguine," he called. "Accept our offering!" And he began to pour the expensive liquor over the base of the statue.

"How much do we use?" someone muttered.

"All of it." Chiron emptied the bottle, down to the very last drops. "My lord Sanguine," he called out. But nothing appeared to happen. "Sanguine!"

"We knew this might not work," Elizabeth began, but Chiron cut her off.

"No, that's not good enough!" He took the empty bottle and hurled it into a nearby rock. It shattered, bits of glass flying in all directions. Martin opened his mouth to say something, to calm him down—but then something split his skull apart, the impact almost sending him staggering to his knees. Through the pain, he could faintly hear the cries of his fellow guildmates, make out the outlines of them gripping their heads as well.

"_Mortals!_" A cheerful voice echoed against the insides of his skull, but there was a sharpness to it. He winced, even as he realized they'd been successful "_Come to beg Sanguine to add a bit of spice to an otherwise drab existence?_"

"Lord Sanguine, I—" he could hear Chiron begin, but the voice of the Daedric Prince cut him off.

"_I would have a service performed for me_," he said. "_You'll do, I think. You, too. And you._" At that, the presence in Martin's head intensified, and for a moment a dizzy haze struck him, threatening to knock him off his feet."_In a fort to the north of here,_" the Prince continued,"_a bandit chieftain's son plots to displace him. He's a dull boy, and his reign will be even duller. I want you to liven up his takeover. You._" A wave of nausea hit Martin, along with the realization that he was being spoken to directly

"_Use this spell. I think it will make things much more interesting. You should probably try to be inconspicuous—or they might kill you._" Martin could practically hear the smile on his face. "_Have fun!_"

And then it was gone. He gasped for breath, glancing around at his fellow guildmates. Chiron and Demetrius were staring at him peculiarly, and so were the rest, he realized as he turned around, only they had fallen back from the base of the statue. Their faces were stoic, though—angry, even—except Elizabeth, who appeared to be in awe, and Lucien, who wore his signature smirk.

"What else did he say?" Demetrius demanded, grabbing his arm. In response, Martin lifted his fingers and brought the spell to the surface. It was strange, he hadn't known it a moment ago, but now, it felt as though he'd spent years practicing it. He let it flicker for a moment, then forced it back down.

"We're going to do a bit of spellcasting."

* * *

They found the tower easily enough, but from the clangs and shrieks echoing from it, the battle was already in full swing. "How are we supposed to get in there?" Demetrius grumbled. "I'm not dying for this." Martin nodded his head in agreement; this entire thing was making him slightly uncomfortable. A small part of his brain was still screaming at him that he was on a mission for a _Daedric Prince_. But the adrenaline was singing through his veins, and he mostly just didn't want to die.

"For crying out loud. You're both idiots," Chiron suddenly lifted his hand, and with a brief shimmer, they were swathed in chameleon spell. "The gate's open. This way, up those side steps." They crouched and ran for it, their feet beating a quick tempo on the stone.

"Stay close to the wall," Demetrius hissed as an arrow went zipping past. Somehow, they miraculously made it to the top, and gazed down over the scene beneath them. Men and women in ragged, mismatched armor were screaming curses at each other as they tore themselves to pieces with their rusted weapons. Martin had never seen so much blood. He felt a bit sick, but forced himself to focus on the task at hand. "Well?" Demetrius and Chiron were now both staring at him with narrowed eyes, so he steadied himself and cast the spell.

The effect was pure madness. The roars of battle died out as the bandits went to make their next attacks—only to realize their weapons had turned into mugs of ale, complete with froth spilling over the sides. There was a dead silence as they stared at the others around, seeing they were all in the same predicament. "What sorcery is this?" Martin heard one of them cry out. And then one dropped to its knees as another brained it with an ale mug. And the battle was back on.

Chiron and Demetrius collapsed against each other, laughing so hard they began wiping tears from their eyes. "So _this _is what a Daedra's idea of mischief is?" Chiron chortled as Demetrius slapped him on the back. "I almost hate to miss the rest of this, but I want to know what the good Prince has to say about this." And they made their way back down the steps and out the gate—albeit less cautiously this time. They were well concealed—and they weren't really worried about the mugs.

* * *

"_A rousing success, mortals!_" Sanguine cheered when they touched the shrine again. "_It was quite amusing. I hope you enjoyed what you saw. Especially you, priest of Akatosh._" And Martin once again felt the Prince's concentrated presence in his head. "_You, my friend, need to lighten up_," he chuckled. "_I hope I'll see you again. It's good for you._" He paused "_Here's a little something for your efforts. It may come in handy if you ever decide to start some fun with me again_."

He was gone then, and a staff, having seemingly appeared out of nowhere, was stuck in the ground in front of Martin. He heard the whispers of his guildmates as he reached out to take it. It was exquisitely carved into the shape of a rose, and when he brushed his fingers over it, he could feel the power thrumming beneath the surface. "He gave you the _Sanguine Rose_?" Chiron's voice sounded a little sharper than usual. "Just like that?" But Martin was fully distracted by the sheer feeling of relief coursing through his veins. Honestly, it hadn't been that bad, and now that it was over, he didn't know what he'd been so worried about in the first place.

"Well, friends." Demetrius' voice rose as he addressed the group. "Now it's time to the only appropriate thing to do after having dealings with Sanguine." He paused. "Drink!"

* * *

By the time the moons had risen, nearly everyone in their little party was drunk. Not fuzzy, not tipsy—drunk. In addition to swiping the Cyrodiilic brandy for the offering from his father, Chiron had apparently brought the entire liquor cabinet along as well. Someone had brought a flute, which of course meant singing and dancing. The flute was a little off-key, but nobody seemed to notice.

Martin couldn't help but wince a little as he stood at the edge of the festivities, clutching a bottle of some fancy brew with a name he couldn't even pronounce. He'd drank far less than anyone; and was only beginning to feel just slightly hazy around the faint edges of his mind. He winced again as he saw Lucien disappearing into the bushes with Marcella and some girl whose name he didn't know. But he just rolled his eyes and took another swig from the bottle. He'd left the priesthood—he knew its restrictions no longer applied to him. But still, the spectacle before his eyes was utterly foreign—and a little uncomfortable.

"Why aren't you out there with them?" He glanced up as Elizabeth approached. She'd been dancing with the others, and now her cheeks were flushed and her hair was falling out of its tidy bun. He had a sudden urge to unravel the rest of it, but instead, he gripped the neck of the bottle just a little bit tighter.

"I'm not really much one for dancing," he said with a smile. "I look like a drunken goat if I try." She laughed merrily and heartily, throwing back her head.

"I'd _pay _to see that," she said, taking hold of his arm. "Come on, I'll teach you how." She attempted to lead him toward the dancers, but he pulled back.

"No really—I'd rather not." She frowned, but relented.

"You're no fun," she complained. "You really ought to lighten up a bit." Her grin took the sting out of her words, however, and he laughed in spite of himself.

"Funny, Sanguine said the same thing himself." The firelight reflected in her eyes, and suddenly her hands were gripping his face and she was kissing him.

He practically felt his eyes bug straight out of his head, but his arm had wrapped around her waist, his hand entangled in her hair. And a bubble of gratification rose up in him at the knowledge that he could do this—_finally _do this. Leading up to this night had been months of planning, months of being tortured by her presence but knowing he was bound by his commitment to the Chapel. But now those ties had been severed; he was free to do whatever he liked. Including her. At that thought, he allowed her to tackle him back into the bushes.

* * *

Afterward, he held her close to his side, but he wasn't sure if it was because of the chill, or just her. _Damn._ She shifted beside him, and he heard the smile in her voice as she spoke.

"So what do you think now? Was all this a good idea?"

He snorted. "You're making fun of me."

"Maybe a little." She nuzzled into the side of his neck. "But really, though. You're Sanguine's new champion. How does that feel?"

"Sanguine's new champion." He snorted again. "Funny to think only two days ago I was a priest of Akatosh."

She sighed. "I'm sorry," she said. "While you three were gone Lucien told me you'd left for good. Cutting ties is never easy."

"Worth it, though." He turned over to face her. "The ritual—it didn't feel like I thought it would. It was…" He struggled to find the correct word. "Mindless, in a way. Suddenly, I'm not so sure the theory applies to Daedra." She sighed and went quiet for a few moments. He was beginning to wonder if he'd upset her when she spoke again.

"I know. There's something we're missing, a piece of the puzzle we're not understanding." She was kissing him again, and he felt his attention drifting away from magic and Daedra. "But at least now we've got you with us all the way. We've got more questions than answers, and it's going to take all our efforts to even begin deciphering them." But then she had rolled on top of him again, and conjuration was the farthest thing from his mind.


	45. Chapter 42: Sanguine

Chapter 42: Sanguine

_Martin_

That winter Martin discovered the greatest sense of fulfillment he'd ever known. His days were for questions, for reading and thinking, for questions, for debating and arguing, for questions, for practicing and testing, and for questions. His nights were for booze and women—and more often than not, Elizabeth was said woman.

He found himself spending more time with her than any of the other mages as the months wore on. Unlike the many of the others, she actually embraced the maze of questions they'd become twisted in, even as the rest of them grew increasingly frustrated. She kept him focused and grounded, and their combined progress rivaled that of the rest of their group put together. But there were times when even she would grow tired and frustrated, and then they would retreat to her room in the guildhall, or, on occasion, the basement beneath the Lazy Dog.

But that was only when they were in Kvatch. Even when the cold set in, there were semi-weekly trips out to the shrine itself. Sanguine answered their summons every time, seemingly pleased to see them, and Martin grew to accept, and even welcome the intrusive, foreign presence in his head. There were always missions, some sort of mischief to accomplish, and afterward, there was always debauchery.

He knew Elizabeth spent a fair amount of time with Chiron as well, and he couldn't say he was exactly happy about that. It wasn't jealously—not necessarily, at least—but something about the man had begun to make Martin very nervous. "He's jealous of you," Elizabeth murmured one snowy night, as they walked down the alley behind the Lazy Dog. It was one of the rare occasions on which they were headed back to Lucien's and his basement, as a particularly hostile outburst from Chiron had made them both reluctant to sleep under the same roof as him. "He has been since the beginning, since Sanguine gave you the Rose." Martin thought of the staff, carefully wrapped and stowed beneath his bed.

"It's not exactly an honor," he chuckled. "In fact, I think it's the exact opposite."

"I know." By the faint light shining between the buildings from the streetlamps, he saw her roll her eyes. "That's how Sanguine operates. How all of them do." Her tone had grown surprisingly bitter, and he stopped, turning to face her. "It's all about drawing followers in, so obviously the weakest link needs the most encouragement."

"Those days are long behind me," he began, but she cut him off.

"That's true now, but it wasn't always." He couldn't make out her features in the dark, but she turned her face upward toward his. "You've changed, Martin. Haven't you noticed? We all have." She pulled away with a sigh. "I'm not sure I like what this is doing to us," she admitted quietly.

"What it's doing to us?" He wasn't sure if he understood. "Elizabeth, we're learning so much, we're adding to the knowledge base…we're actually unraveling the mysteries of the Daedra, and—"

"Exactly." She whirled back to him, jabbing a finger into his chest. "And when we first started, we wanted to learn about _conjuration_. Remember?" she chided. And he found himself glancing guiltily away. "When we realized that the Daedra were a dead end, we should have started looking elsewhere, but instead, our focus shifted. Do you realize just far how off track we've gotten?"

He frowned. "Do you regret it?" There was a silence as she stared at the ground.

"No," she finally whispered. "Not really. Like you said, we've accumulated so much _knowledge_. And that can't be a bad thing, right?" She sighed. "But I wanted to _conjure_, Martin. Not be a Daedric Prince's errand girl." She was shivering, he noticed, and they had long since reached the cellar door.

"I want you to be careful around him," he murmured, taking her face in his hands. "If something doesn't feel right, just walk away. I didn't like what we saw tonight." She kissed him, but when she pulled away, she was frowning.

"I think we have bigger problems than him here," she said irritably. "We're worshiping a Daedra who's getting better and better at getting us to fulfill his every whim." He sighed and kissed her again.

"Come inside," he urged, gesturing toward the door. "You're going to freeze." She obliged, but her bad mood seemed to stick. It was several more days before her usual enthusiasm returned.

But then, there came the day that the courier turned up at the Mages Guild with an important delivery for Demetrius. He had contacted an acquaintance in High Rock who supposedly had important connections, and that night at the Brown Fox as they read over the bundle of letters, they ended up worked into such a frenzy that the innkeeper actually came up to check if everything was all right. The letters spoke of specific days that a Daedra could supposedly be summoned—not simply contacted, but truly pulled from Oblivion to Nirn. Also included were instructions detailing the ritual involved.

That information spawned the fiercest argument they had ever had. The cries ranged from "too dangerous" to "too unreliable" to "we _have_ to _try_." Chiron, unsurprisingly, was the most vocal advocate for the last option, but there was a clear majority backing him. And so it was decided. They would attempt to summon Sanguine.

* * *

The morning of the sixteenth of Sun's Dawn dawned cold and clear, although dark skies loomed to the west. They had already been on the road for several hours at that point, and Chiron grew ecstatic as the weather shifted. "It's going to rain," he said excitedly to anyone who would listen. "It's going to rain. That increases our chances!"

Martin simply rolled his eyes as he trudged onward, the Sanguine Rose clunking against his back with every step. Although it spent most of its time beneath his bed, he always brought it along when they made their trips to the shrine. He'd only used it twice, once to send a scamp sprinting off through a herd of sheep, and another time to send an ogrim waddling toward a noble's caravan. Both incidents had been amusing, but the creatures had been quickly slain, by the shepherd and the guards, respectively. Its presence was mostly symbolic, but it somehow felt disrespectful to show up without it.

They reached the shrine at dusk, where a party was already in full swing. They had been joined by several others over the months, but the new additions seemed more interested in the parties than in the mystery whose stone likeness oversaw said parties. Many of them had formed a small tent city in the general vicinity of the shrine, but none of the mages really minded—it just made their celebrations that much better.

Chiron immediately charged straight through the crowd to the pedestal they had erected there some months back, the rest of the mages hurrying along through in his wake. Demetrius addressed the crowd as they climbed up."Friends!" he shouted. "Friends, your attention! Your attention!" The noise slowly died down as the merrymakers shifted their attention to figures above them, the light of the bonfire splattering jagged shadows against the statue.

"Friends, today is the most monumental day of our lives. Today is the day we summon our lord himself. He shall walk among us tonight!" Although they probably didn't understand, the crowd erupted into screams as the mages took their places. Lucien, Gregor and Marcella stood by the statue itself with the Cyrodiilic brandy—according to the ritual instructions, it would take three bottles to perform an actual summoning. Meanwhile, Chiron, Demetrius, Martin and Elizabeth all began to chalk a circle of Daedric runes onto the platform.

As they did so, Elizabeth leaned over and spoke into his ear. "Now _this_ is what I've been looking to do all along," she murmured. "At last, some _real_ answers." He smiled back at her as they stood, stepping into the circle and joining hands. She was right, of course; they had gotten sidetracked over the past several months, but tonight, they would finally make some progress toward their original purpose. He almost failed to notice the white-knuckled grip Chiron had on her other hand, but it caught his attention for a brief second—and then the ritual began.

The four of them inside the circle began to chant, the Daedric language unfamiliar and clumsy on their tongues. Immediately, Martin began to feel something. It was similar to the pressure he felt in his head when conversing with Sanguine, but this was spreading through his entire body. He could feel it shooting through their joined hands, forming a loop of energy. The wind was picking up, and drops of rain had begun falling, but he forced himself to focus on reciting the words. The energy intensified, his entire being was trembling with it—and then it was gone.

His grip on Demetrius' and Elizabeth's hands fell away as he stumbled back, gasping for breath. He felt exhausted, he realized, feeble—almost as though his magicka reserves had been sucked away. That had to mean… He quickly looked up, but to his utter disappointment, the circle was empty. So the summoning had failed. Sanguine had not managed to manifest himself. And then the voice spoke.

"Mortals!" His head snapped in Chiron's direction, but it was Chiron no more, he realized, as his friend stepped to the edge of the platform. While he, Demetrius and Elizabeth were all exhausted, Chiron stood tall and proud. But while his voice was excited, animated—his eyes were vacant. And suddenly it was clear what had happened.

"I thank you for welcoming me into your world," Chiron—or rather, Sanguine—continued. "Unfortunately my stay can't be long, but while I am here, I think we'll have fun. I truly believe this will be a night to remember!" There were whispers in the crowd, and as his little speech ended, they turned into cheers. From somewhere out of sight, music began as the Daedric Prince turned toward his summoners.

"My faithful servants," he said with a chuckle. His voice was the same as it had always been, but without its terrible, echoing weight—a human voice. And it was stranger still to hear it coming from Chiron's mouth. "Thank you for the invitation. And for the use of your friend here." He gestured toward his—Chiron's—body, and Demetrius quickly stepped forward.

"My lord," he said in an awed tone. "Is there anything I can do for you, my lord?"

"A drink." Sanguine snickered. "Have a drink with me, dear Demetrius. And as for the rest of you," he waved dismissively, "scatter! Go have fun. I hope to speak to each of you at some point tonight."

Elizabeth was tugging on his sleeve. "I can't believe it," she was saying. "A possession? It's incredible, to be sure, but you felt it, didn't you? It was like—" but then her words were cut off as they climbed down and he immediately lost sight of her in the crowd. He'd been separated from the rest of the mages as well, and after a few minutes of blindly pushing past strangers, he gave up and forged his way to the edge of the crowd.

He needed a drink, and after opening a bottle, he sat off to the side with it, watching the dancers twirl around the fire. Somewhere in that mass of people, a Daedric Prince wearing a young mage as a living suit was having a drink, chatting with mortals, enjoying himself. And they had brought him there. He shook his head. That kind of power was unheard of—at least in the Mages Guild.

He just wished he didn't feel so damn _tired_. He should be mingling with the others, celebrating the greatest triumph of his life, but all he wanted to do was close his eyes and go to sleep. The ritual had taken more of a toll on him than _twenty_ normal spells would have. But that only made sense, he suddenly realized. There were three parts to a conjuration: the process, the summoning, and the _binding_. How were they holding Sanguine there? Was his magicka still being leached away by the Prince's presence on this plane?

He suddenly panicked, thinking of the effect that would have on him—of all of them. _Why hadn't they thought of this?_ Dear gods, it could kill him. It could kill all of them. But then he flexed his magicka, and found it to be steadily replenishing itself—which only set him into a greater panic. Actually, he realized, that was much, _much _worse. _Something _had to be holding Sanguine there—and he suddenly realized it was either the Daedra himself's power—or his ties to Chiron. Neither option had particularly good implications.

Something caught his gaze, and he looked up to see Chiron—or Sanguine, he supposed?—Demetrius and Elizabeth up on the pedestal again. Chiron was addressing the crowd, and whatever he was saying, it was working them into a frenzy. Demetrius and Elizabeth stood slightly apart, and as he watched them, something didn't appear to be quite right.

Demetrius stood behind her, one of his arms locked across her body, almost as if he was holding her upright. His other hand appeared to be behind her head. Martin frowned. Was she all right? Perhaps she was ill. She never drank much at their celebrations, but she had been so excited by what they'd accomplished tonight. So why was she up there? She really ought to lie down, he decided. He'd head over and get her down from there, set her up in one of the tents they'd brought, and then rejoin the festivities. By then, he'd probably be almost completely rejuvenated, maybe then he'd find an attractive young merrymaker to celebrate with.

But as he drew closer, something appeared even more off. Elizabeth wasn't slumped over or drooping as if heavily intoxicated. In fact, she was standing quite rigidly, almost as though she were braced against Demetrius. And Demetrius. Although an Imperial, the man was built like an Orc, and despite the freezing weather, he had discarded his shirt, leaving his arms bare. A sick feeling in his stomach grew as he saw that Elizabeth's hands were curled around the arm across her, and Demetrius' bulging arm muscles rippled sporadically—as though he were pinning her there.

Martin immediately began to push through the crowd, spurred on by a sudden sense of urgency. He was close enough that he could make out some of Chiron's words. He had to get up there. He had to get her down from there. Chiron was saying something about primal instincts. Martin distinctly made out the words "blood feast." He urged the crowd to join in his pleasure. And then before Martin's eyes, Demetrius pushed Elizabeth up to the edge of the platform. A faint glow appeared as Chiron summoned a dagger. And slit her throat.

Blood.

His blood froze in his veins.

Her blood sprayed across the crowd.

Her body went limp, fell heavily to the platform as Demetrius released it.

He might have screamed her name as he surged forward, but his scream might have had no words. Or he might not have made any sound.

He couldn't see her body, he was too close now. But he saw Chiron raise a fist triumphantly, heard laughter. He saw Demetrius tap him on the shoulder, saying something to him once he turned.

They were in his way, the drunken, oblivious crowd. He drove a fist into the small of someone's back, jammed an elbow into an ear. They were _in his way_.

The Sanguine Rose was still slamming into his back with every lunge forward. He fumbled for it, his hands struggling to grip it, but he tugged it free. Whipping it around, he blindly blasted it into the crowd.

Several people were knocked aside as the hulking, grey-skinned humanoid creature appeared. While one of its hands reached out and snatched a partier by the throat, a light blossomed in the other. Martin had only a split second to realize what was happening as he caught a glimpse of something reptilian. And then the screams began.

He was knocked to the ground as the crowd began to stampede in his direction. He was nearly trampled, but he snatched hold of someone's legs, rolling aside and pulling them down with him. Several others tripped, blocking the tide and allowing him to scramble to his feet. He lurched toward the platform again, but the space before it had been transformed from a party to a battlefield.

The Xivilai was now wielding a massive warhammer singlehandedly, slaying members of the crowd left and right. With its other hand, it released surges of electricity, and the smell of burnt flesh was beginning to fill the air. The clannfear was still running amuck, and to his horror, he watched it tear a man to shreds, his screams quickly cut off.

But there were other daedric creatures, too; ones he knew he wasn't responsible for. For a moment he thought they were the Xivilai's but there were far too many. And then he saw them, the mages and the merrymakers, all turning on each other indiscriminately. He only had a moment to comprehend the horror he'd unwittingly unleashed before a familiar figure came charging at him, and he was thrust into a fight for his very life.

Gregor screamed something at him as he prepared to swing a claymore at his head, but Martin was faster. He sent a spray of flames at his former friend's face, cutting off the blade's arc as the man screamed, lifting his arms to block his face too late. Martin ducked aside, jerking out his dagger and stabbing blindly at the man's gut. There was blood and the cries grew strangled, but Martin had pulled his blade free and was blocking a blow from the next approaching figure.

He lunged. Ducked. Stabbed, sliced. Fire and frost flowed from his fingertips. It might have been minutes. It might have been hours. Hide. Attack. Get out of the way, and attack again. Through the maze of tents. Loop around. Back toward the fire. Then he was knocked to the ground by a charging clannfear, and for a moment, a hollow ringing sounded in his ears.

A hand snatched his collar and hauled him to his feet. "_What _did you _do_?" In the jagged light of the dying bonfire, Lucien's face, contorted with rage, could have belonged to a creature from Oblivion itself. They were surrounded, by the screaming, by the dying…but Lucien's lips were still moving. "I saw the Xivilai," he was saying. "_No one _here has that kind of power. Where's the staff?" But another figure was coming at them, and Lucien roughly released him.

It appeared to only be fleeing, but Lucien grabbed hold of it and stuck his dagger in its neck. "We've got to end this," Martin thought he heard him shout. Together, they cut through the crowd, making steady progress toward the platform. Chiron and Demetrius had vanished from atop it, but he thought he caught sight of a familiar figure before he fell.

* * *

_He was on a ship at sea, and it was rolling with the waves. The deck churned beneath his feet, and each time it pitched, he was knocked down to meet the floorboards again. There was grey, grey all around him, but it wasn't a dream—was it?_

_Wake up_.

His eyes jerked open, and sure enough, he was met by grey. The sky, he realized, he was looking at the sky, soft with the light of pre-dawn. His eyelashes were stiff with frost when he scrubbed at his eyes with numb, purple fingers, but he wasn't remembering, what was it he was trying to remember…?

Sanguine.

That single word was enough to set up him bolt upright. No, no, his problem wasn't that he _couldn't_ remember—it was that he _did_. Oh, _gods_…

"Martin." He turned to see Lucien sitting a few feet away, his dark brow knitted into a troubled frown. "You're all right." He slowly looked away instead of responding, surveying the damage before him. The remains of the bonfire still smoked—but the carnage surrounding it was what had his attention.

The blood. It was everywhere—dark and congealed, nearly swallowed by the frost—but unmistakable. The bodies, too. Entire bodies. Parts of bodies. Men and mer ripped to shreds and scattered to the wind.

He swallowed hard. "Where is she?" He whipped back around to Lucien, who quickly rose to his feet.

"Martin, you need to—"

"_Where's Elizabeth?_" he howled. He, too, had risen, had snatched hold of his friend's collar. Lucien sighed, not meeting his eyes.

"I started laying them out over there." He pointed to where a scattering of bodies lay in careful rows, and Martin immediately released him and sprinted over.

She was easy to identify, with her apprentice's robe and long blond hair, even with it soaked in her blood. Unlike the mangled corpses surrounding her, the single gash across her throat was her only visible wound. Lucien had closed her eyes, and if he didn't look below her neck, she could have passed for merely asleep.

Except for her cold, mottled flesh. His stomach churned slightly, but he gently slid a hand beneath her head and raised it slightly, working his other arm beneath her torso and lifting her to his chest. For a few moments, he silently cradled her, his throat tightening. She'd known. She'd known what they were doing was a mistake. She'd been the most intelligent out of all of them—and the wisest, as it turned out. She'd been the only one to realize that they needed to get out. And it was too late. For her. For all of them.

Very slowly, he lowered her back to the ground. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm sorry that we didn't listen to you. That_ I_ didn't listen." He carefully folded her hands across her chest. "I'm sorry I lost you, that I didn't look harder. I'm sorry I didn't realize what was happening." He still held one of her stiff hands, its fingers curled into claws. "I'm sorry I didn't know it _would _happen." But he could feel his jaw trembling, so he quickly rose and stalked back toward Lucien. But then, he caught sight of another familiar face, and he paused for a moment to examine it.

Demetrius' face had been cleaved in half, and one of his arms was nearly torn free. Judging from the punctures and slashes covering the rest of his body, he had met his end tangling with a clannfear. A sudden bitterness welled up in Martin, and he spat on the body. On Demetrius, who had always been so joyous. Who had enthusiastically accepted every member of their group, who had called them all his friends. Who would, given the chance, passionately debate on his opinions for hours. Who had betrayed them. Betrayed _her._ He gritted his teeth, his grief whisping away as his anger reached its boiling point.

"Where's Chiron?" he demanded shortly as he approached Lucien. But the other man stood with his arms folded, still wearing that scowl.

"Where did the Xivilai come from?" he shot back. "No one there could have _possibly_ summoned that. It came from that staff, _didn't it_?" He jabbed a finger toward where the Sanguine Rose lay a few yards away, miraculously still intact.

"_Where's Chiron?_" Martin repeated. His best friend locked his gaze for a moment, then angrily kicked the stool he had been sitting on, sending it flying through the air.

"_What the fuck happened, Martin?_" he shouted. For a moment, Martin was stunned. Lucien _never_ swore—it went against his sense of High Rock etiquette. But he found himself quickly recovering.

"You didn't see? You didn't see what they did to her?" He didn't even recognize the voice emanating from his throat.

"I was…occupied." At least Lucien had the decency to look uncomfortable, if only for the briefest of seconds. "What _who_ did to _whom_?"

"To _Elizabeth_," he growled out. "Chiron and Demetrius. They _murdered _her. Right up there." He pointed to the remains of the platform, which had apparently caught fire during the fighting. "In front of everyone."

Lucien's face had gone blank. He pursed his lips, and appeared to be about to say something, but then there was a rustling sound. He and Martin both whipped around just in time to see a bloodied, bedraggled woman burst out from behind a tangle of toppled tents. She froze when she saw them, eyes widening in horror, and appeared to be about to sprint in the opposite direction.

"Marcella! Marcella, wait." Lucien raised his hands defensively. "It's all right. We're not going to hurt you." She paused, but her body was still angled away, her eyes darting nervously in all directions.

"Lucien," she acknowledged in a shaky voice. "Martin." She surveyed the carnage, then turned back to them. "_Gods' blood_, what _happened_?" Her voice broke, and Martin noticed the tearstains streaking the dirt covering her face. "They're dead, everyone's dead. I thought I was the only one left, and I need to find Gregor but I—"

"Marcella," Lucien interrupted, "here." He stepped forward and tossed a coinpurse toward her. She flinched away, but then crept forward to pick it up. "Take that and _go_. Get to the road, find a guard to escort you to Skingrad, or Anvil, or _anywhere_. If you _must_ return to Kvatch, do _not_ go to the Mages Guild. Or the Brown Fox. Rent a room at the Lazy Dog, take care of your business, and get _out_. There are going to be a lot of questions—ones you're not going to want to be the one to answer." She nodded silently, and scurried away.

When Lucien turned back to Martin, he still wore that blank expression. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I know she meant a lot to you." His gaze was focused on the ground. "The last I saw of Chiron, he was headed toward the stream." Martin nodded in acknowledgment.

"Thank you," he muttered before picking up the Sanguine Rose before heading off in that direction.

The stream was a low, rocky one, about ten minutes away to the north. Martin reached it in half that time, and immediately began scouring the rocks for any signs of activity as the eastern sky began to produce a soft orange glow. He almost overlooked it, but after a few minutes of searching, he caught sight of the figure hunched over on the bank. Gripping the staff tightly, he stepped forward. "Sanguine," he growled.

The figure straightened up, turning to face him. "Ah, Martin. My champion." The Prince grinned. "It's too bad we didn't get to chat more last night. The party started out rather dull, but you, my friend, _really_ know how to liven things up." He laughed loudly. "You crazy kids. What a welcoming for old Sanguine, eh?" He laughed again, and Martin once more felt his rage swell.

"You _killed_ her," he seethed. "She _brought_ you here, and that's how you thank her? By _murdering_ her for…for _fun_?" The Prince sighed.

"Ah, that." He sighed. "Unfortunate, really. She was quite the woman. Powerful, too. To tell you the truth, I'm not sure I would've made it through without her pulling me." He chuckled. "I'll admit, it's not really my style, but sometimes there's just something about a good old crime of passion that really resonates with me, you know? So I let the kid have his fun." He gestured toward his body, and Martin frowned.

"What do you mean, 'let him have his fun?'" he demanded. The Daedra's eyebrows rose.

"Oh, surely you're not blaming this one on old Sanguine?" He guffawed, laughing so hard he brought a hand up to his eyes to dab away imaginary tears. "No, that was all the kid. He'd been planning it a long time, too." He shrugged. "He wanted the girl, she wanted you, he didn't want anyone to have her if he couldn't…blah blah blah. All very childish." He sighed. "Like I said, such a waste. But I figured I owed to the kid to let him have his moment. What with him letting me hitch a ride and all."

"Do you honestly expect me to believe that?" Martin's blood was running cold, and he found he could barely choke the words out. His throat was tightening again, and it was growing increasingly difficult to speak.

"Kid, I really don't care what you believe," the Daedra said. "You served me well. Don't expect to see much of you after this, but we had a good run, eh?"

Martin stared blankly at him for a moment, then lifted the Sanguine Rose and snapped it over his knee. He barely felt the pain as a few of the carefully carved wooden thorns imbedded themselves in his leg; instead, he tossed aside the broken pieces and defiantly lifted his gaze to Sanguine's. The Daedra didn't even bat an eyelash.

"Well, that was uncalled for," he said mildly. "Guess it'll be off to garden for me this afternoon." He turned his head to the eastern horizon, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the glow of the sunrise. "Sorry I can't stick around longer, but you see that?" He jabbed a thumb at the growing expanse of color. "Dawn. My summoning day is officially over. Looks like it's back to Oblivion for me—at least until next year." He chuckled again. "It was nice knowing you, kid. You've got a lot of guts, summoning me here. Most mages would never dare to attempt such a feat." He staggered, and when he straightened up, it was Chiron again.

"Martin," he wheezed. He looked terrible; his eyes were bloodshot, his face was haggard and he was trembling so that he could barely stand. But the dark glare he wore chilled Martin to his core. "Who in _Oblivion _do you think you are?"

"Excuse me?" Martin stared him down.

"I know what happened. I saw you summon that Xivilai. Congratulations. You managed to practically kill us all off," he snarled. "I knew it was a mistake to let Lucien bring you to those meetings. And I knew it was a mistake when Sanguine gave you that damn staff!" A darkness Martin had never before experienced was slowly spreading through him.

"All right," he said slowly, "maybe you're right." He nodded. "But you murdered Elizabeth, Chiron. You're sick, you're demented, and you're a _blight_ on the face of this world." He stooped and picked up a jagged fragment of the Rose. Chiron gave a sardonic laugh.

"I was _possessed_, Martin. Remember?"

"I don't know." Martin shook his head. "You seem to remember everything that was happening, so I'm sure you heard what he told me just now." Chiron rolled his eyes.

"He's a Daedric Lord, Martin. He would say _anything_ to stir up more trouble. You're actually going to believe him?"

Martin stared at the piece of wood in his hand. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "Months of harmless pranks, and then he pulls this. I don't know if I believe anything he said." He lifted his gaze to Chiron's. "But that doesn't change the fact that _your_ hands ended her life. And you can't even _pretend_ to be sorry about it." He shook his head. "So I'm going to do this world a favor."

He was surprised by how easily the makeshift stake pierced through flesh.


	46. Chapter 43: Redemption

**A/N: Hello! Just a couple quick announcements:**

**1. Just a reminder, this is the third update this week, so you might want to make sure you didn't miss a chapter.**

**2. NaNoWriMo starts tomorrow, and unlike in previous years, I have every intention of continuing this story throughout November. However, NaNo will take precedence over this story, and I also have multiple thesis deadlines this month, so updates may be a little sporadic. **

**3. This month's number of views was a new record, so THANK YOU to all of you! I'm glad y'all are taking the time to read this, and keep coming back for more.**

**Happy Halloween, everybody! This will be the last part of Martin's story before we move back to the Oblivion Crisis. Enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter 43: Redemption

_Martin_

Long after Chiron's body had drooped to the ground, Martin sat by the stream, listening to the water rushing beneath the ice. The blood had dried on his hands, but he paid it no mind, absently staring through space. After the brief dawn, the darkness had returned, and when tiny flakes of snow began to fall, he shifted his attention to his right knee.

Two of the thorns from the Rose had been imbedded there, along with another large splinter. He dug them out with clumsy fingers, wincing slightly at the fresh pain. He sent a half-hearted flicker of healing magic toward it, just enough to stifle the flow of blood, but otherwise left it alone.

He continued to sit, but when he began to notice a sharp, unpleasant odor in the air, he forced himself to his feet. He managed to limp his way back to the shrine, every step on his wounded leg sending new daggers of pain. But when he saw the smoke billowing from the top of the hill, he doubled his pace. The smell was worse than ever, stinging his sinuses and forcing him to gag. He staggered up over the hill's crest, and stopped short at the sight he saw.

The bonfire had been rebuilt, and it was heaped with a variety of objects—crates, barrels, and what appeared to be tent poles. But the far grislier sight—and the source of the smell—was a second fire some distance away, also consisting of a variety of shapes. Distinctly human shapes. He stared in horror, as a familiar dark-haired figure picked up what appeared to be an arm and a head and hurled them into the flames.

"Lucien, tell me Elizabeth isn't in there," Martin began darkly as he approached. Lucien, however, still wore that same scowl.

"Chiron?" he asked, a single dark eyebrow rising.

"Dead." Martin didn't elaborate further, and he was glad when Lucien didn't press him—or ask about the dried blood coating his hands and sleeves. "Is Elizabeth in there?" He tried to keep his tone cool, but judging from the way Lucien gave a growling sigh and wheeled on him, he was unsuccessful.

"No, Martin," he said tiredly. "She's still over there." He pointed to where the green-robed figure lay. "I thought you'd want to bury her. But something had to be done about the rest of them." Despite the cold, he was sweating, Martin noticed. His hair had fallen out of its ponytail, strands of it sticking messily to his face, and he was covered in blood. He felt a sudden stab of guilt, as he realized the younger man had spent the morning cleaning up the massacre on his own. He swallowed hard.

"I'll go start digging," he muttered. He wanted to take her back to Kvatch, to have one of the priests stitch closed the gap in her neck and dress her, to have her placed securely in the undercroft. Leaving her out here seemed wrong, he thought sadly as he repeatedly struck at the frozen earth with a pickaxe. In the shadow of the Daedra who had seen to her end, without a proper headstone or even a coffin—that was no way to be laid to rest. But it was better than being set upon a mass pyre, and he felt the guilt choking him once again. Everyone in that blaze had once had loved ones, too.

It was dusk when he finally finished digging, and by that time, both the fires had died down to smoldering ash. And while Lucien hacked out chunks of earth to be sprinkled over them, Martin picked up Elizabeth's body and carried her over to her grave. The snow had formed a shroud across her, and he tried to brush it away as best as he could, just to have once last glimpse of her face. It was hard to believe the woman who had once been brimming with life, with intelligence, with passion—could be reduced to this hollow shell, her hair hanging in icy ropes, her eyelids long since frozen shut. "I'm sorry," he said again, although no amount of apologies could bring her back now. "I'm so sorry for everything." He kissed her forehead, then crouched by the edge of the grave. He tried to lower her as gently as possible, but he still flinched when she heavily tumbled to the bottom. Although he made a concerted effort not look at her lying tangled there, he still caught a few painful glimpses as he filled it in.

Lucien wandered over just as he was finishing packing in the last few shovelfuls. He'd changed out of his blood-soaked clothing, and had wrapped a cloak around his shoulders. By the light of the torch he carried, his face appeared grimmer, more haggard than usual. "I made this for her," he said, holding out what appeared to be a thick stake. But when Martin examined it more closely, he saw that her name had been crudely carved into the side. "I didn't think you'd want it going unmarked." Martin took it and stabbed it into the earth above where her head would be.

"Thank you," he muttered. For a moment, they silently stood side by side. "I hate…_leaving_ her here like this," he finally said. Lucien sighed.

"She's gone now. You did all you could for her. I'm sure she'd appreciate that." He uncomfortably shuffled his feet. "But we need to go now, Martin. Staying here isn't good for any of us. We've taken care of everything, and there's no reason to prolong this." Martin allowed himself to be led away, but the ghosts seemed to follow.

They made camp about an hour away from the shrine, silently huddling around a meager campfire. They'd brought along their personal belonging, but there were no tents, and the only food was a slightly mushy apple Lucien had found in his pack. The one saving grace was that the snow had let up, but Martin scarcely noticed. Images of the past twenty-four hours were running through his mind, and the screams were just as wretched in memory as they had been in happening. Lucien had been urging him to eat, and although he refused, a carefully-sliced half of the apple was set on the stones on his side of the fire.

"Have pity on a stranger, travelers?" a voice suddenly rang out, and they both jumped from their skins as a figure appeared from the darkness. "All I ask is to share your fire." Across the flames, Lucien met his gaze, his frown identical to the one Martin felt across his own face. They hadn't noticed the stranger until she was upon them. Had she had ill intent, they would have both been dead already.

"Be our guest," Lucien said slowly, gesturing toward the space beside him. As she sat down, however, he and Martin both shifted closer to each other. Lucien still had his dagger at his belt, and Martin carefully prepared the beginnings of a frost spell. After the previous night's events, they knew they couldn't be too careful; if things ended up going south, they were ready.

"You boys are out in the middle of nowhere, aren't you?" the woman said, sitting down and brushing the snow from the heavy black robes she wore. "You don't look like you have much in the way of provisions, either," she added shrewdly, pushing back her hood to allow thickly-braided hair to tumble down over her shoulder.

"Bandits," Lucien said smoothly, a hint of High Rock charm emerging in his voice. "But I'm sure we'll reach a town soon enough, and then we'll replenish."

"Mhmm." The woman nodded, peeling off her gloves and rubbing her hands over the flames. "Kvatch is less than a day away. Only a matter of hours, really."

"That's a relief to know." Martin didn't have to look at Lucien to know he was using his most winning smile. He had zoned out again, and was instead watching the firelight reflect across the clasp of the woman's robes, which seemed to have a tiny hand etched into it. "I assume there are hot meals in Kvatch as well?"

"Of course." The woman shifted, and the flames glinted off the hand making it look like it was waving. "But I should think a couple of cold-blooded murderers like yourselves would avoid city walls as much as possible."

It took them both a moment to realize what she had just said. Then Lucien leapt to his feet, Martin quickly following suit. "Excuse me?" Lucien demanded, whipping out his dagger. "What did you just say?"

The woman didn't move as she smirked up at them. "Sit down," she said, and at the deadly calm in her voice, they both obeyed. Lucien, however, had settled into a crouch instead, and still held his dagger even. "Let's be civil about this. Put that weapon away." Her eyes narrowed in Lucien's direction, and he very slowly placed the dagger on the ground.

"My name is Simone, and I come to you as a representative of the Dark Brotherhood," she began. In an instant Martin's mouth had gone dry, his heart pounding furiously. _Akatosh, help me. Bestow Stendarr's mercy upon me._ The silent prayer sprang up unbidden, and his surprise at its appearance almost distracted him from the glowering assassin. Almost. Still, he hadn't though on the Divines in months.

"And we know." She stared sharply at each of them in turn.

"Begging your pardon, ma'am," Lucien interrupted, "but may I ask what it is exactly that you 'know?'" To their surprise, her cold mask broke into a lovely smile.

"Why of course, Lucien," she said pleasantly, and at that, Martin froze. They hadn't told her their names. "We know that the two of you have killed, and not in self-defense or in battle against some supposed bandits, either. No, you two have deliberately _taken_ lives by force." She smiled again. "And judging by that massacre at the Daedric shrine back there, I would say that you were involved. But not as some self-proclaimed holy avengers. No, vigilantes travel in greater numbers. _They_ are usually waving around some symbol or another of the Aedra, and are prepared for winter travel." She raised her eyebrows knowingly. "And then, of course, there was that fellow back at the creek. That was a beautiful piece of handiwork, if I may say so. Crude, but effective—and appropriately symbolic really."

Martin felt as though he were about to be sick. That memory came rushing to the surface: how _fragile_ Chiron had felt as the staff punctured his chest, the flecks of blood spraying from his mouth as he coughed, that final wheeze that sounded like a curse… He fought to keep the bile down, trying his hardest to take deep breaths.

"A tragedy, I'm certain," Lucien countered, still trying to save face, even when they were undoubtedly trapped. "But I'm afraid there's been a mistake. We are not the ones you're looking for."

Simone sighed. "Lucien, don't try to talk your way out of this," she said. "I come to the two of you tonight with an offer, and you ought to at least _hear_ it before walking away." There was a brief silence, and then Lucien sighed.

"All right. Please continue."

"Good." Her tone was saturated with satisfaction. "I would like to extend to the two of you the opportunity to join our family." Their _what? _"The Night Mother has been watching you two. She sees the darkness in you, and she is most pleased. And _we_ are pleased with your work. So we've decided to extend to you an opportunity." She paused, once again stealing separate glances at them. "On the east side of Skingrad, the woman in the first house on the right needs to be eliminated. Feel free to use whatever means necessary. Accomplish this, and the two of you will have earned the right to become part of the Dark Brotherhood." She stood then, tugging her gloves back on. "I leave you now to think this through. But be aware, an opportunity such as this will not be offered again. Make your choice carefully. This is your only chance." She backed away as she spoke, and by the time she finished, she had melted seamlessly into the night.

They both sat in stunned silence for several minutes afterward, each half afraid to look at the other. Finally, Lucien was the one to break it. "The Dark Brotherhood," he said simply. Martin solemnly nodded, still staring into the flames. The following silence was even longer than the first. "We should sleep on it." Lucien abruptly stood and began fishing his bedroll out of his pack, and Martin did the same. He was tired, cold, hungry and numb with grief. He just wanted to sleep and _forget_. But this time, he pitched back and forth for hours before sleep claimed him, and when it finally did, his dreams were filled with screams and flames.

When he awoke in the morning, Lucien was already cramming his bedroll back into his pack. He'd already put on his boots and his cloak, and he had pulled his old black hood over his head. And as Martin began to pack up his things, Lucien began to speak—in a far more hesitant tone than Martin had ever heard him use. "Martin," he began, then hesitated, fiddling with the hem of his cloak. "I've decided that I'm going to Skingrad." No further explanation was necessary. Martin dropped his pack and whirled on his best friend.

"Have you lost your mind?" he demanded. "Lucien, you can't become a killer for hire, that's…that's…" As he struggled to find an appropriate description, Lucien sadly shook his head.

"What other options do I have?" he asked quietly. "Or you, for that matter? We poured everything we had into…" he gestured over his shoulder, back toward the shrine, "..._this_." He grimaced. "And look where we ended up."

"This isn't you, Lucien," Martin couldn't even look at him. "You're better than this."

"Do you remember back when we first met, when we talked about respectable work?" Lucien prompted. "There's no honest work for a failed Daedra-worshiping conjurer, either. But this…" He sighed. "This is something I can do." He shifted uncomfortably. "It's not a talent I ever planned on possessing," he admitted, "but the other night, I realized…I was _good_ at it. The Dark Brotherhood is a powerful, widespread organization. Those they mark for death will die either way, so if I can offer them a swift, painless death, maybe that's not such a bad thing."

Lucien his friend was turning into Lucien the assassin before his eyes, and he was helpless to stop it. "Come with me, Martin," the other man suddenly urged, his dark eyes fiery. "You don't have any options left, either. We've always worked well together; why should this be any exception?"

And in that moment, Martin knew he'd made his decision. Slowly, he shook his head. "I can't, Lucien," he said quietly. "I've decided to return to the Chapel."

"The _Chapel_?" Lucien arched an eyebrow doubtfully. "What are you going to do _there_?"

And Martin let out a bitter laugh. "Beg forgiveness," he said simply. "What else _can_ I do?" Lucien began to nod slowly, thoughtfully.

"I see," he finally said. "I wish you the best, Martin. I only hope one day you'll allow yourself to accept it." Martin had reached down to recollect his pack, and when he straightened back up, Lucien had disappeared from view—and from his life.

* * *

There was a new layman in the Chapel. The boy, a Breton with a shock of orange hair, approached him as he sat in one of the back pews, hiding beneath his hood. "Can I help you, sir?" he asked brightly. Martin stiffly nodded, still staring down at the floor.

"I need to speak with Oleta," he muttered.

"Oh," the boy said slowly. "Sister Oleta only sees patients by appointment only. She's in very high demand, you see, and—"

"I'm not here to see a healer." Martin quickly cut him off. "I just need to speak to Oleta. Can you get her, or should I wait?"

"I—ah—" The boy stumbled over his words. "I'll…see what I could do." And he quickly slunk away. The minutes ticked past, and Martin could scarcely bear to sit there a second longer. It wasn't just the idea of one of the priests who knew him walking past and recognizing him, although that worry was gnawing away at him. Rather, it was the stained glass image of Akatosh looming above him with what he was sure could only be a disapproving scowl. All the Divines, it seemed were glaring down at him as well, as though he could feel their gaze boring into him.

He jumped as a door slammed shut and footsteps approached, and when they stopped beside his pew, he shrank even further beneath his hood. Then the voice spoke. "Sorry for the wait, sir. What can I do for you?" It was her professional voice—crisp and to the point, but it was Oleta's just the same. He hadn't even realized his legs were shaking until he stood.

"Oleta," he muttered, pushing back his hood. She gave a little cry.

"Martin! It's you! It really is you!" And suddenly, comforting arms had pulled him into an embrace, and he was surrounded by the herbal scent that always followed her, the one he had known his whole life. Only when it had been gone had he even noticed it was there in the first place. But she abruptly pulled back and stared up at him. "What is it, Martin? Something's wrong; what is it?" Concern was all over her face: in the corners of her mouth, in the wrinkles by her eyes. As though the last time he had seen her he hadn't completely disregarded her—and pushed her into a wall.

He swallowed hard. "I need help," he managed hoarsely. And although he hadn't done so since he was a child, at the age of twenty-four he once again found himself weeping in Oleta's arms.

He told her everything. He told her the whole, ugly story and she listened to all of it, never once chiding him or giving a disappointed look. She nodded understandingly when he explained their conjuration theories. She smiled when he spoke of Elizabeth. And she cried when he told her about the blood and the daedra.

When he was finished his tale, he wept some more. And then he prayed. Kneeling in front of the altar of Akatosh, he begged for forgiveness. For his pride. For his foolishness. For his selfishness, for his betrayal; for his anger, and for his wrath. For the souls departed long before their time. For Elizabeth. For Chiron, even, that his soul might find redemption, even in death. For Lucien, that the gods might grant him forgiveness for what he had done, and for what he might yet do.

And then he slept. He didn't know how long he lay down in his old room. It might have been hours. It might have been days. Oleta brought him meals a few times while he was awake, and would leave a candle lit when she left. And then he would stare at that candle, watching the flickering shapes on the walls until he fell asleep again.

But this pattern was finally broken by Oleta rapping on the door, drawing him from his restless slumber. "Martin?" He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Martin, I'm sorry to wake you, but could you come into the library, please?" He didn't mind, though—he'd been having another dream. They haunted him: Chiron laughing, covered in Elizabeth's blood. Gregor swinging a blade at his head, calling him a traitor. Demetrius, his face split in two, barely recognizable. Even Marcella, fleeing into the wilderness, her face streaked with tears. He wondered if she'd made it to safety. He truly hoped she had. And of course, there was Elizabeth.

But he shook himself out of those thoughts and made his way to the library. Oleta was there, along with a little man in mages' robes. "Come in, Martin," she urged, motioning for him to sit. "Martin, this is Ligan, an old friend of mine from my University days." She hesitated. "And I was wondering if you could tell him what happened.

"Oleta's told me the basics," Ligan added in, "but I wanted to hear it from you. Daedra worship and conjuration are two things that don't really have a large knowledge base, and we believe your story could lend some insight, and maybe help to prevent something like this from happening again." So Martin told him. He told him about the conjuration and the theories. He told him about Sanguine, about his horrible, crushing presence inside his skull. About the missions, about the Rose, and about the dead ends. He told him about the summoning ritual, reciting the Daedric incantation word for word. Somehow, though, muttering the words in a chapel library sounded far less impressive than shouting them before a screaming crowd. And then he told him about the aftermath. About Elizabeth's murder, about the chaos that followed, and about the part he had played in the destruction. About what Sanguine had said to him about the night's events and his time in Chiron's body, and what Chiron himself had to say about it. And though admitting it to a stranger sent a whole new ache coursing through his chest, he told him about how he'd killed Chiron.

He left out the parts about Lucien, though; somehow, no matter what dark path he'd chosen, it wouldn't have felt right to incriminate him. Although it turned out he needn't have worried, because although Ligan sharply sucked air through his teeth at the murder parts, when he had scrawled down his last sentence and set aside his quill, he turned to Martin very seriously.

"I want you to know that I didn't mention any names," he said. "And this is not going to be published, or otherwise distributed. It's going straight to the archives at the Arcane University, where it will be available to anyone who needs it, but it won't become common knowledge." Martin had thanked the man—repeatedly—and after shaking his hand, returned to his room and slept.

But that evening, Oleta came and knocked on his door, carefully shutting it behind her when he called for her to enter. She sat on the edge of his bed, carefully smoothing her skirts repeatedly before speaking. "How are you feeling, Martin?" she asked. "I hope talking to Ligan wasn't too distressing for you."

"It was fine," he muttered. He had tightly cocooned himself in his quilts, partially obscuring his view of Oleta's face, but he could still see her worried frown. "He said the information will be there, if anyone needs it. Maybe if they can see what _idiots _we were they'll avoid that path." His tone flooded with bitterness, and there were several minutes filled with silence before she spoke again.

"Martin, I can't help but feel that some of this is my fault," she sighed, and he abruptly sat up, tossing aside his quilts.

"Oleta, absolutely not," he began, but she interrupted.

"No, I feel like I pushed you into the priesthood," she said. "You were _fifteen_, Martin—that's _so _young. I don't think you were fully capable of knowing what you wanted yet—or understanding what you were signing up for. But it's respectable, and fulfilling, and safe." Her eyes were soft as she smiled sadly at him. "That's all I've ever wanted, Martin—for you to be safe." She shook her head. "And that's why I was worried about you studying magic. I've been there, Martin. I know what the Mages Guild environment is like. It's cutthroat and competitive, and it's also _possessive._ It draws you in and takes over, and I didn't want that for you."

"Oleta," he said slowly, "the problem wasn't that we were studying magic. It's that we were worshipping Daedra." She sighed.

"I know. But I, too, was once young and thirsty for knowledge. And that thirst led me down a path I didn't want to follow." She glanced away.

"Motherhood was never on the table for me," she continued, staring at the floor. "It just wasn't something I was interested in. But then there was that morning we found you on the steps of the Chapel. It had been a hard winter, and a poor harvest before that. No families were willing to take in an extra mouth to feed, and so you stayed." A faint smile had come over her face. "Martin, you're the closest thing I'll ever have to a son. I love you as though you were my own. You have been an absolute joy, and I am so proud of you."

He gave a bitter laugh. "Even now?" he asked sardonically.

"Even now." She brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. "You walked away, Martin. Few people who have fallen under a Daedric Prince's influence could say the same."

He pulled away. "There are people who are dead because of me," he said flatly. "I don't know how I'll ever atone for that." He drew in a shaky breath. "Would there be any chance of a possibility for me to come back?" he asked.

"You_ are _back," Oleta said gently, but he shook his head.

"No. I mean back to the priesthood. Renewing my vows, officially rejoining the Imperial Clergy."

Oleta pursed her lips. "I don't see why not," she said carefully. "You would need the primate's permission, of course, but yes." She hesitated. "But only if you're sure, Martin. Only if you're absolutely certain this is what you want to do."

"I am," he said. And he meant it.

* * *

With the primate's blessing, he renewed his vows a month after he returned to the chapel, in the sight of Akatosh and all the Divines. Only the primate himself and Oleta were at the ceremony—the other priests were not so eager to forgive. But as he spoke the words this time, there was finality in them. He truly meant them, truly was offering his life to the Divines' service. The guilt still lingered, but somehow, the stained-glass presences of the Divines didn't feel so imposing.

He had nightmares, and he had a limp. Both were reminders of his sordid past, but he wasn't sure which one bothered him more. The limp made stairs annoying, but other than that, he was managing it. The nightmares, on the other hand. Those haunted him at all hours, when he slept and long after he woke.

He went and apologized to Sharog gra-Durga. He even brought a bunch of tiger lilies. She spat at him and cursed him all the way down the street, but she did take the flowers. He took that as a good sign.

Brother Ilav was named primate in Sun's Height, after the old one stepped down due to health reasons. That same evening, Ilav pulled him into his office and told him he was keeping an eye on him. That was disheartening. Oleta told him not to worry about it, that actions spoke louder than words and soon he would earn Ilav's trust. He knew Ilav was within his right to say it, but he still felt heavy for several days afterward.

With the new layman taking over his old duties, Martin found himself assigned to counsel parishioners who came in looking for guidance. He thought they couldn't have possibly chosen a worse person, but he did his best. He was patient. He listened. He didn't insult their dead husbands. _The gods can turn anything to good_, he told them. He just wished he believed it himself.

The other priests were careful to avoid him. Someone was always watching, even as the months continued pass. He knew they didn't mean to be cruel; they were just afraid. They had a right to be suspicious, and he knew that. But on New Life, when he sat alone at dinner with everyone else laughing and feasting together, he suddenly remembered the closeness of a bottle of good wine shared among friends in grass before the shrine of Sanguine. He quickly set aside his plate and fled up to the chapel itself, where he spent the next several hours in prayer.

He never heard anything from Lucien. He wondered if the path he took had brought him to what he was looking for. He hoped it did. Oftentimes in his prayers, he would ask for safety for him. It never got any easier. His new life was lonely, filled with constant reminders of his past and his guilt. But one day in First Seed, when he spied the flowers blooming up through the snow behind the crypt, he actually smiled again.


	47. Chapter 44: A Cold, Safe Place

**A/N: I shouldn't be here. Really, I shouldn't. I'm scarily far behind on NaNoWriMo, but after the amount of thesis work I did this week, I figured I owed this to myself. So here you go. Enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter 44: A Cold, Safe Place

My face was half-engulfed in goose feathers, and my entire body felt solid and heavy, as though it had been encased in lead. "What time is it?" I mumbled into the pillow, as Martin's arm tightened around my waist.

"Two," he muttered into my hair. I strained to open my eyes further, but I was met with only darkness.

"Morning or afternoon?"

"Afternoon. I think." I felt him raise his head from the pillow. "Unless I fell asleep for longer than I thought. But there were snow clouds on the horizon earlier."

"When _aren't_ there snow clouds?" My face was buried in the pillow again. "I slept all day."

"You needed it." His head sank down next to mine again, and I suddenly realized why I felt so heavy.

"I forgot to take my armor off." I pried myself up on my elbow and stared in dismay at the soot and ash now coating the top layer of blankets. I'd managed to ruin an Emperor's bed.

But he laughed, and that in itself made it worth it. His laugh was becoming so rare as the months dragged on, and as the Xarxes slowly ravaged his mind. I think we both knew it, but neither of us was willing to admit it—not to ourselves, and certainly not to each other.

But I kicked off my boots and began struggling with my chainmail. "Here." He helped loosen a buckle I was straining for, and I pulled it over my head and let it clink into a pile on the floor. I managed to quickly wriggle out of my greaves, and then immediately darted under the blankets. Although the Emperor's quarters had the luxury of privacy, they were also farthest from the main hall's massive fireplace—and therefore downright _freezing._

There was a small flare of light as he turned over to the nightstand and lit a candle. A small clock rested there, and he squinted at it before settling back down again. "Actually, it's seven," he admitted. His tone carried a note of guilt, and I knew he felt that he'd wasted time he could have spent working on the Xarxes.

"_You_ needed it," I admonished, echoing his words. The rough, worn wool of his robe was familiar, and I found myself beginning to doze off again. But then he was speaking.

"I've been thinking," he said, and at the hesitation in his words, my eyes opened again. "I think we should do it tonight."

"Tonight?" I said skeptically. "I thought it was snowing again."

"I don't know. It wasn't this afternoon." His voice was suddenly weary. "But Lily—it's all I've thought about for the past month. I just…have to see for myself. It's been twenty-five years of not knowing, and now that I _do_ know…" His voice had turned pleading, and I sighed. I understood all too well what he was talking about, and I found myself relenting.

"All right," I said, even as my heart sank. "Once the guard changes. We'll go then."

And so two hours later, Baurus nodded as the hooded, dark robed figure swept past him out of the Emperor's room. I was suddenly grateful I'd never had a set of robes that actually fit me made, as Martin was comfortably concealed in Lucien's old set. I tiptoed along behind him, cloaked by my Shadow birthsign, and I breathed a sigh of relief as we exited into the courtyard to see that it was in fact _not _snowing. No observant Blade would notice that there were actually two sets of footprints in the fresh snow.

In the stables, Shadowmere glared at Martin suspiciously, but seemed to recognize me despite the fact that I was invisible. Though I fumbled with her tack, as I was unable to see my hands, I managed to get her saddled and motioned for Martin to mount. He frowned, his deep blue eyes widening slightly. "Is she going to let me?" he whispered, and I nudged him forward impatiently.

"She won't try anything with me here. Now hurry up. And stop talking," I hissed back, keeping a tight grip on Shadowmere's reins. He awkwardly hauled himself into the saddle, and I quickly swung up behind him. Although he held on to the reins for show, I reached around him and guided Shadowmere out of the stables and down the steep stone stairs. "Lean back," I muttered beside his head as we descended, but other than that, we were silent as we rode down the mountain and along the road that wrapped around Bruma.

I could feel myself growing increasingly uneasy, and when we reached the gate, the emotion that struck my heart was staggering. The grief that had been buried for so long beneath the Sanctuaries and the ritual items and Oblivion was suddenly rising up like a shrieking spirit, threatening to choke the life force from me. Shadowmere seemed to sense it too, snorting and shaking her head as she anxiously pawed at the frozen ground. "Easy, girl." I chided her as I slid from her back, but my voice caught in my throat. Martin clumsily thumped down next to me, and in the moons' dim reflection off the untouched snow, I saw his questioning expression. I swallowed hard. "Here," I said, pointing, and our footsteps crunched in the snow as we strode forward.

The smell of death packed a powerful punch as I opened the door, and Martin gave a ragged gasp. "By the Nine, _Lucien._" He pushed past me, but he stopped short a few feet of the corpse. "Lucien," he repeated. "What did they _do_ to you?"

What remained of my fallen Brother's corpse was frozen solid—as it probably had been since Frostfall. But it had decayed badly over the summer, and was now little more than a rotten hunk of flesh. The mutilation, though, was still apparent, and somehow made even worse by its decomposing state. There he hung, the last casualty of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, the man who had died for his Family. The horror of the Purification once again sprang out unbidden from the shadowy corners of my mind, and despite myself, I began to weep.

Martin turned, and his arms were around me in an instant. "I know," he muttered. "Seeing him like this, it's…" His voice was strangely thick, and I had a feeling he was fighting tears as well. I managed to compose myself, and Martin quickly stepped away. "Here," he said, striding to the bed and stripping the quilts from it. "Drag that bench over." He pointed to where the furniture in question sat in the entry way, and I did as requested, sensing what he had in mind.

But it felt like it could have been yesterday. I saw it all in my head: that strange little Dunmer sprawled across the bed. The sour Imperial carefully arranging his bedroll. Arquen, propped against the wall, her face unblemished. And the silent figure by the fire, never moving, always watching. _You are like an unholy vision…_

I shuddered as I tugged the bench across the floor, its legs scraping loudly on the stone floor. No doubt the man in the corner and the girl on the cabinet had been "unholy visions" as well. And no doubt I would have joined them in that chamber of horrors afterward.

The Anvil guard had received an anonymous tip, though. The lighthouse cellar had been raided, the lighthouse keeper had been interrogated, and there'd been a province-wide search for a thin, blond Breton man in his mid-thirties. The search had yielded no results, however, and the matter had been put to rest. The cellar was sealed, and the bodies had been buried in the Chapel graveyard.

Martin tossed the quilts over the top of the bench, and actually placed his hands on Lucien's corpse, maneuvering it out of the way so I could push the bench beneath it. With the head and shoulders resting on it, Martin sprang up on top of it and grasped the stiffened rope. "Do you have a knife?" he asked.

I withdrew the Blade of Woe and handed it to him hilt-first. It was oddly fitting, somehow—that Lucien's gift to me should be used to assist in reclaiming his desecrated remains. It quickly sang through the fibers, and Martin caught the legs as they dropped. He quickly unwound the rope and tossed it away as he climbed down, and settled the body neatly on the quilt-covered bench. "We'll need something to tie it with," he muttered, more to himself than to me, and he began poking around through some crates and barrels in the corner.

I carefully bundled the quilts around the stiff corpse, gently tugging the last corner over the face as Martin reappeared with a length of rope. "This should do the trick," he said as he began looping it around the feet. It became as struggle as we reached the middle, but between the two of us, we managed to secure him in his makeshift burial shroud. We stood there in the deserted farmhouse, looking down at him without words.

"We ought to start on the grave." I quickly turned away before the emotions could overtake me again. In a barrel in the corner were an assortment of digging tools, and I selected one and passed a second over to Martin. Outside again, we glanced around, trying to decide on an ideal spot.

"Those graves over there—are they…" Martin began, but I quickly shook my head.

"Those are the Draconises'." That was all the explanation needed. "Did he ever say where his parents were buried?"

Martin sighed. "No. He rarely said more than three words about them. I don't think they were buried on Applewatch grounds, though."

"Over here then?" I wandered toward the gate, gesturing toward the foot of a large boulder. Martin nodded.

"It could work." He knelt in the snow and began brushing it away to expose the bare earth. I joined in, until we had cleared a large enough section. "What kind of heat spells do you know?" he asked.

"I've got a mean fireball. Why?" He frowned slightly.

"Any that are a bit more concentrated?"

"Yes, but it's weaker. Why?" I repeated.

"We need to thaw the ground before we can dig. The best way I can think of to do so with is magic." He strode to the opposite corner and began casting, as I followed suit. The combination of magical and physical exertion made the work especially draining; we would have to thaw the area, dig up that layer, then thaw the next and repeat. But finally, we had a decently-sized grave.

Back in the farmhouse, Martin took his shoulders and I his feet, and we carried him back outside. At the edge of the grave, we set him down and then Martin jumped down in it to carefully settle him. After he climbed back up, we stood at the foot, staring down at the quilt-wrapped bundle. I wished we'd had a coffin for him, but beside me, Martin cleared his throat and began to speak the words of a funeral rite.

"Arkay, we now offer up our fallen brother. As we commend his soul to Aetherius, blessings of the Nine Divines upon him. Forgive his sins, and comfort those of us he has left behind. May his soul find its way in the afterlife." We bowed our heads, and then Martin continued.

"Lucien, I never thought I'd see you again." He paused. "Look at us now. You're a heroic assassin, and I—I'm the _Emperor_. Who would have ever guessed?" He paused again. "Things have changed now, Lucien. The gates of Oblivion itself have opened, and daedra walk the earth same as mortals. And it's up to me to unite the Empire and stop them. But in the midst of all of it, I found you again." He went quiet for a few moments before continuing.

"You were the closest thing to a brother I ever knew. You were my challenger, my competitor, a thorn in my side," a hint of a chuckle broke through his voice, "but above all, you were my friend. We saw good times, and we saw dark ones. But you were my strength in that darkness." His tone had grown troubled, and here, he paused. "I never forgave myself for the way we parted. I know we didn't agree on things, but in the past twenty-five years you've never been far from my mind. Now I know that you went on to do some questionable deeds, but you found yourself a family, which I think is what you were looking for all along." He paused again. "I'm sorry for the way you died, Lucien. Nobody would deserve that, and you least of all. But you died at home, and I know you wouldn't have wanted it any other way." He lowered his voice. "Rest in peace, brother." He fell silent, and I knew it was my turn.

"Lucien, I'm sorry," I began, swallowing nervously. "I am so, so sorry. Every day, I ask myself: what if I'd questioned the dead drops? What if I would have been faster in Anvil? Or what if I'd just forced myself to stop and try to understand the position you were in when the Purification happened?" I would not allow myself to cry. "When we met," I continued, "you gave me hope. Not a lot of it, but enough for the time being. And when we met again, you gave me so much more than that." My voice was going faint.

"You gave me a roof over my head and food in my belly. You gave me the opportunity to be trained under Vicente Valtieri. You gave me a whole family of people I would have never _dreamed_ of connecting with, but who I still carry in my heart. In short, Lucien, you gave me everything I needed to be able to take care of Martin here." His hand suddenly tightened around mine. "If I'd died on the streets, or if I didn't know how to fight, or if I didn't know how to care about anyone, I never would have gotten the Amulet to Jauffre. I would have died in Oblivion. Or I would've let Martin run himself into the ground, because from what I've heard, you know he would have." It was my turn to chuckle.

"I think my biggest regret will always be what I said to Antoinetta before she died. I…I told her that she was wrong about you. That you were a mistake. But I was wrong." My voice had finally dropped to a whisper. "Lucien, knowing you was an honor and a privilege. And you should know, the Black Hand is restored, and all the Sanctuaries…they're like _ours _now. And we're fighting, too. All of us are working to keep Martin safe." I was smiling through my tears. "So farewell for the last time, Brother. Rest in peace. And wherever you are now, I hope you meet Antoinetta again." And then we filled the grave in.

As we packed in the remaining shovelfuls of dirt, Martin suddenly spoke up. "I wonder if he ever found the will."

"I don't think so," I began. "He left me the letter about the traitor, but there wasn't anything about—"

"There wouldn't have been." Martin shouldered his shovel and started toward the house. "He was quite secretive about it, and incredibly bitter. He would have hidden it right back where it was meant to be." We were inside, and after stowing his shovel, he began flipping aside wall hangings and rapping on the stone beneath. I simply dragged the bench back into place. It was still hard to process the fact that this farm had been _Lucien's_—and that the entire bloodline of Draconises I had killed off had been his _family_. Not that he saw it that way, I thought with a sigh as I leaned up against the wall, watching Martin. As far as he'd been concerned, we had been his only family.

"Ah, here we go!" Martin suddenly called out, and I scurried over to his side. He was balanced atop a bench in the back corner of the room, and was tugging a stone free of the wall. I quickly took it from him, and he reached into the hole. "There's something in here," he said slowly, and pulled out a sheaf of parchment. Setting the stone on the kitchen table, I retrieved a candle from the sideboard and lit it with magicka. Martin and I both clustered around it, staring at the retrieved document.

It appeared to be rather old: it was yellowed and the edges were curling. It also bore a suspicious, rust-brown stain. But by the faint light of the candle, the words across the top were easily made out. _The Last Will and Testament of Guilbaut E. Lachance_, it read. "This is it," Martin muttered. He hurriedly flipped through the pages as we scanned through them, until we came to the all-important line: _I hereby bequeath the entirety of my estate to my only son and sole heir, Lucien Alaric Lachance._

Martin's laughter startled me. "Ah, that old bastard," he sighed. "At least he had this knowledge in his final hours."

"So what happens now?" I wondered. "He didn't have children, and I'm almost certain he didn't have a will." After I had taken up residence in Fort Farragut, I had become acquainted with nearly every nook and cranny of the place, but nothing of the sort had ever turned up. For a moment, Martin was silent, and when he finally did speak, his lips were tightly pursed.

"Well, I suppose we'll have to have a conversation about that eventually," he said slowly.

"Meaning?" My eyebrows arched.

"It's clear he would have wanted it to pass along to his family." He gave a sidelong glance in my direction. "In other words, all of you." He stepped away, rolling up the will and replacing it in its hiding spot. "But that also ties in with the other conversation we need to have about the Dark Brotherhood." I tensed up.

"What exactly does that mean, Martin?" I asked coolly, folding my arms across my chest. He turned back to me with a frown.

"Obviously I can't condone systematic organized murder," he said, and I felt a bubble of rage rise up in me.

"Martin, I have had Family members _die _over the past months," I said as calmly as I could manage. "They died protecting _you_, and I should certainly _hope_ you're not going to begin a crusade to weed us out the moment the Dragonfires burn again." He gave a long, ragged sigh, and crossed over to me.

"Lily, that's not what I meant at all," he said tiredly. "I know I owe the Dark Brotherhood a great deal. Which isn't a phrase I ever thought I'd say," he added, almost as an afterthought. "And I haven't mentioned it before because I know it's a sensitive subject, but if you're willing I'm actually hoping we can work something out. Perhaps a Morag Tong sort of deal."

"You want to partner with us." I could hear the disbelief in my own tone. "The Empire sanctioning the Dark Brotherhood."

He rubbed his temples. "Lily, I don't know. Like I said, it's a conversation we'll have to have at some point. But I just buried a very dear friend, and I know it was just as hard for you as it was for me. So can we perhaps save this for another time? I'm very tired." I nodded brusquely, and we made our way out of Lucien's home.

We were met at the road by a furious Baurus. "Well, fancy seeing you here," he snapped. "Just what exactly did you think you were doing?" Shadowmere threw her head up and backed away as his voice rose. "Sneaking the Emperor out from under the protection of his Blades in the dead of night? That's grounds for treason charges," he snarled at me menacingly.

"Baurus, it was my idea." Martin rose to my defense, but the Blade would have none of it.

"I'd expected better from you too, Sire." He fixed Martin with a withering glare. "Now answer my question. What in Oblivion were the two of you doing sneaking around out here? Breaking into houses? Burying bodies?" I winced as I realized how much he'd seen.

"Baurus, the man we buried was a very dear friend of ours," Martin interjected. "I knew him from when we were young, and Lily met him much later. He was attacked in his home last year, and Lily was unfortunate enough to be the one to find him." He paused. "How did you know to follow us, anyhow?"

"You have a limp. She doesn't," he said absently, but his mind was clearly on other things. "You expect me to believe she found him and then just left him there. For a year." He said the words flatly, clearly not buying it.

"It was a distressing experience, as I'm sure you can imagine," Martin countered. "But as it turns out, he left the farm to Lily, so we came back to see the place and lay him to rest."

Baurus had switched his immobilizing glare over to me, an incredulous expression filling the rest of his features. "You are quite literally the oddest woman I have ever met." Something in his face twitched, and for a moment, he appeared merely disappointed. "I will never understand you, and I will never understand why _he's_ so helplessly dependant on you." He stepped closer, and his voice lowered dangerously. "I don't think having you around is good for him." I simply met his gaze straight on, and after a few terse moments, he backed down.

"You're needed in Chorrol, anyhow," he said. "The word came yesterday. Jauffre said to tell you when you woke up." I nodded, and he fell in step beside Shadowmere as we began our trek back up the mountain.

* * *

The streets of Chorrol were strangely deserted as I entered the city after closing the Gate. The city had been under martial law since the Gate outside the city had opened, but even with it gone now, it appeared to be a ghost town. But I began to catch sight of flutters of movement from above, as shutters began to open and people began to peer out, confirming for themselves that it was over. And then, as I glanced toward Northern Goods and Trade, I saw a sight that froze my blood.

A slight figure had appeared on the porch, a tiny bundle cradled in her arms. My heart increased in tempo as I recalled my vampiric visions. She wasn't dead, I thought quickly, she couldn't be. I was certain she hadn't been there a moment ago…

Sure enough, I sighed with relief as I climbed the steps to come face to face with an aghast Dar-Ma. "_Lily?_" she said, her gaze traveling down to my cuirass and back up to my face. "_You're_ the _Hero of Kvatch_?" I was staring at her, too.

"It's been a while, Dar-Ma," I said. And then, as if on cue, a thin wailing rose from the bundle.

"Oh, Nine Divines," she muttered exasperatedly, turning her attention to it. She adjusted the wrappings, then held it up so I came face to face with a tiny child, its scales barely-formed and colorless. "Lily, meet Deerkaza." She paused. "My son."

The dining table that had filled the upstairs front room was gone, I noted as I sat awkwardly at Seed-Neeus' desk. Dar-Ma had invited me up for tea, and was now puttering about preparing it with one hand, as she held her child with the other. In the table's place was some unusual contraption of stone, with a pipe leading to the fireplace. Dar-Ma glanced over and saw me staring at it.

"We had to keep his egg in that," she said with a groan. "It was an absolute nightmare. It's got to have a constant source of heat while it incubates, and it took a week to have that built. During that entire week, I literally had to sit right on the hearth with him wrapped up in quilts in my lap, with a raging fire going. In the middle of summer, no less!" She sighed. "Men and mer races have it easy. You just carry it around inside you and go about your business."

I laughed. "From what I've heard, that's no picnic, either." It was still hard to get past the idea of her as a mother. I watched as she shifted her son in her arms, and began spooning him some kind of blended plant matter.

"To each her own," she sighed, and looked up at me curiously. "So, you. You closed the Gate out there." I nodded, and she continued. "You're been closing Gates all over Cyrodiil. How did _that_ come about? Where did you go that day, when you left the pond after Kvatch was attacked?"

I sighed. "At the time of the initial attack, I had the Amulet of Kings in my possession." Her eyes widened, but she let me continue. "I took it to the Grandmaster of the Emperor's Blades, and he told me that the last Septim heir was a priest in Kvatch." And I told her the tale, or rather an abbreviated version of it. Some details, of course, were not meant to be general knowledge. And when I'd finished, the kettle had begun whistling. She carefully got up and brought it over to the desk.

"I can't believe it," she said in a hushed tone. "It's just Heroes are rare enough to begin with. You don't see them come along too often, and when they do, you never think they'll end up being an old friend." She was staring at me in a way that was making me exceptionally uncomfortable, and I quickly glanced away.

"I wouldn't call myself a Hero, Dar-Ma," I corrected. "I just happened to be in the wrong place at the right time."

She gave me a very shrewd look. "Isn't that how it is with all of them?" she said. I frowned, but she had glanced down at Deerkaza and was smiling delightedly when she realized his eyes were closed.

"Finally." She exhaled and her gaze shifted back up to me. "It's just _awful_ getting him to sleep. He only hatched a few days ago, and I'm pretty sure I haven't slept since then." A question had been nagging at me, though, and so I broached the subject gently.

"Dar-Ma," I asked carefully, "who's the father?" She glanced away guiltily, and began pretending to adjust Deerkaza's blankets.

"Amusei," she admitted, her voice a mere mumble.

I spat my tea out of the table. "_Amusei?_" Amusei—who'd introduced me to a life of crime, who had a knack for trouble but not a knack for getting out of it, who had an acerbic wit and an aversion to honest work—was a _father_. And not only that, but the mother of his child just happened to be the sweetest, most innocent girl I had ever met.

"I know." She finally looked directly at me, and I had a feeling were it not for her scales, her face would have been brightly flushed. "And I know all about him—what he does for a living, I mean." She sighed, glancing back down at Deerkaza. "He walked me home from the pond that day. And I don't know—we just got to talking, and…" She shrugged helplessly.

"Does he _know_?" I chose my words carefully, but she nodded, her face relaxing.

"Oh, yes. After," her voice once again grew guilty, "he left the first time, he said he'd come back to see me. And by the time he did, I'd already found out Deerkaza was on the way. I was so afraid to tell him, but Lily, he was _so happy_." She leaned forward eagerly. "It was really the last thing I was expecting, but he was thrilled, and he's been here ever since." At that, I automatically found myself glancing around the room, but she laughed.

"We've been confined to our homes, you know, but he's been going out. He crawls out through the window and makes his way along the rooftops. This is actually the first time he's left since Deerkaza hatched." She frowned out the window. "I'm not sure why he's not back yet. Perhaps with the Gate gone, he wanted to investigate." I nodded.

"What about your mother? How has she been?"

Dar-Ma sighed, and a flicker of sadness crossed her face. "She's not doing so well. We've lost a lot of money in the past several months, and the stress of the Gate being so close has taken a toll on her. Plus," she grimaced, "she's not exactly partial to Amusei."

I frowned. As a thief and a shopkeeper, it was unsurprising that they were at odds. "Does she know about what he does?"

"No, but she says she can tell that he's trouble." Dar-Ma rolled her eyes. "Plus, she's not exactly pleased that we're not married."

"Ah." I nodded, understanding.

"It's not that she doesn't like Deerkaza. She adores him, and she loves being a grandmother. But she and Amusei often have words, and she's always telling me that he's going to end up leaving me." She sighed, and I found myself thinking back to a conversation held all those years ago, when Seed-Neeus had been encouraging Dar-Ma to marry some farmer's son. Yet here she was four and half years later, with a child and a relationship that was hardly conventional, yet somehow she made it work. You had to hand it to Dar-Ma.

But yet I still found myself able to sympathize with Seed-Neeus, just as I had all those years ago. She had dreams for her daughter, just as my mother had once had for me. And that once again sent my thoughts plunging in that direction. Was my mother even still alive? There had been my brief encounter with Enilroth the year before, but he had given no indication as to what had happened. I hadn't seen him since, though, not even in my many trips to Anvil. However, I had been making a concerted effort _not_ to look for him.

But as it were, Anvil was the only remaining city that hadn't agreed to send reinforcements to Bruma. And like the other Counts and Countesses before her, the Countess of Anvil agreed to send troops—once the county had been cleared of Oblivion Gates.

I nearly didn't make it out of the last one. I had gotten lost, wandering a maze of tunnels as I nearly boiled inside by armor, with only the thought of the cold safe place where we'd laid Lucien to rest to keep me searching for the exit. But after I'd closed it and entered the city, with a crowd of cheering, grateful citizens surrounding me, I thought I spotted a familiar face.

I rented a room at the Count's Arms, as I couldn't go to the Sanctuary with such a horde of people surrounding me. But the publican there was quite eager to chat, and after some subtle hints on my part, he launched into a tale that left me speechless and on the verge of tears. And in the morning, as I exited the building, I had both an explanation and a set of directions.

First Seed in Anvil was springtime, and as I walked along the streets, the sun illuminated my surroundings with the purest light I'd seen in a long time. There were birds nestled somewhere in the trees that were already in bloom, and their songs joined the chorus of my feet on the paving stones. I made my way along as though I were headed toward the Sanctuary, but instead of heading straight toward it, I turned down the next street, until I reached the house that had been indicated.

The house in question was a stately stone villa with a long porch. I could feel the sweat coating my palms as I approached and rapped sharply on the door. My heart rate accelerated as I stepped back and waited, but there was no response. I knocked again, but still no answer. I could feel myself growing agitated as I stepped back. Had I really put myself through all this anxiety for nothing? Then I heard it. It was very faint, just a few bars being hummed. But I would know that song anywhere.

I made my way along the porch, stepping off onto the grass along the side as my heart reached a frantic rhythm, more obvious than when I'd been turned back from vampirism. The song grew stronger; that familiar folk tune popular amongst the Bosmer that I'd grown up to. I rounded the corner, and a sprawling garden came in sight. Corn, tomatoes, and even a long line of grapevines were bursting from it, and the outer edges were an explosion of color in the form of a vast array of flowers.

And a dark-haired woman stood in the center, prodding at some roots. She was humming the song, the same song she'd sang to me since childhood. Time froze still, as my heart seized to a grinding halt.

"Mother?"

Her head rose slowly, warily as she took in the robed stranger standing before her. A frown creased her face for the briefest of moments, but then as it dawned on her, she gasped sharply, her deep green eyes—eyes that I had once shared with her—going wide. "_Elbereth!_"


	48. Chapter 45: Blood and Water

**A/N: A plea to my fellow writers: BACKUP YOUR WORK. Right now. Why are you still reading this? Copy everything over to a flash drive. Copy it to another flash drive. Email it to yourself. Email it to a friend. Email it to your grandma. Seriously. Save it to as many external locations as you can.**

**Just in case for some reason you don't know, there's an encryption malware that's been going around. It demands payment or it'll delete the key and your files will be unrecoverable. There are supposedly copycat versions that can be removed, but the real deal is a nasty piece of work, and even making the payment won't restore your computer.**

**My point with this is that last month my computer was infected with this, and everything's gone. And I mean everything. As in, it had to be wiped to factory settings, and my entire operating system had to be reinstalled. And the worst part is that I've lost all my writing.**

**I had important stuff saved on a flash drive, but by important stuff I mean the writing I've done that I've deemed semi-acceptable - in other words, only about 30% of the content I've generated over the past four years. And even though it was crap, losing that other 70% was really heartbreaking. I spent so much time and energy on it, and it was a record of my process and growth as a writer. And now that it's gone, it's something I can't ever get back.**

**And as if that weren't bad enough, the flash drive I had things saved on was corrupted, and the documents were only partially salvaged. I lost a decent chunk of this story, but I was able to download the parts of it that had been published. This chapter, however, wasn't so lucky.**

**I was almost finished it when my computer was infected, and that's the reason I've been absent the past month. It was a challenge the first time around, and losing it was really discouraging. Quite frankly, I just haven't had the heart to rewrite it. But it's done now, and I'm excited to move forward with this story. I also have an important announcement coming up, so look for that either next or the following chapter.**

**Again, backup your work. Even if you wrote it when you were eleven and are now embarrassed by the grammatical errors or the unrealistic characters or the stale plot, just save it. You want that record of how much you've improved and grown. Also, if you're a PC gamer, you should backup your save games. My Listener/Gray Fox/Archmage is gone forever now, as is my Fighters Guild Master/Madgod, and I miss them so much :( And don't even get me started on my poor little Dunmer Stormcloak...**

**Anyhow, I've ranted enough. Enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

Chapter 45: Blood and Water

_Enilroth_

The Gate outside the city walls had opened in Evening Star, and since then, the work had been nonstop. The guards had initially gone out to engage the forces of Oblivion directly, but by the time the first month had passed, half the city guard was gone and the daedra just kept _coming_. So the Countess had closed up the city gates, put a curfew into place, and ordered the guard to shoot from the city walls instead. In other words, that meant over two months of constant fletching. And Enilroth _hated_ fletching.

He loved smithing. He loved the heat of the forge, the feel of the hammer in his hand, the impact reverberating up through his shoulder as he pounded the metal, the pride of finishing a finely-crafted product. But fletching was boring and tedious, and there was _nothing_ he hated more. So when the shouts rang from the streets and the famed Hero of Kvatch's praises were being sung, Enilroth was perhaps the most relieved out of all Anvil's citizens, and he sagged away from his fletching, finally able to _rest_.

He always had to be doing _something_; if he wasn't working or drawing or eating, he always had to have some sort of object to fiddle with, or he'd be tapping his feet or drumming his fingers against any available surface. On the day after the Gate closed, however, he sat in a chair behind the counter, feet propped up on the surface and hands laced behind his head. He wore a faint smile, his eyes were closed, and for perhaps the first time he could remember, Enilroth was absolutely still. Varel had taken on two more apprentices as the crisis had heated up, both of them young boys, still of school age. Like he'd been when Varel had taken him in, but neither of those two seemed to possess his passion for the craft. They'd been out the door as soon as Varel told them they could leave today, almost before he'd finished speaking. Not that he really could blame them, he thought wryly, crossing his feet. The sheer nothingness was _wonderful_. Even Varel himself seemed to agree, as the man had gone upstairs for a nap, leaving Enilroth in charge of the shop.

There was then the clatter of the door being opened, and Enilroth groaned. Letting the front legs of the chair thunk back down to the floor, he stood and prepared to greet the customer. But there wasn't one. Frowning, he planted his hands on the counter and peered down over it. Sure enough, a bedraggled-looking boy stood there, staring up at him warily. "Can I help you?" Enilroth asked slowly.

The boy's brow furrowed. "I'm looking for Enilroth," he said, with a surprising air of self-importance. Enilroth fought the urge to laugh.

"That's me. Who sent you?" he asked. But the boy's brow furrowed, and he crossed his arms over his chest, staring up at Enilroth with such severe scrutiny he couldn't help but chuckle. The boy's face twisted up at that, but regardless, it seemed that Enilroth passed inspection.

"A lady sent me to find you. She said you need to come home." Enilroth groaned.

"Was it Faustina?" he asked warily. "Tell her if she needs something, she can come see me herself." The woman hadn't appreciated it when he'd reconnected with his mother last spring, and she'd made her displeasure quite well known, seizing any and every opportunity to remind him. But the boy only shrugged.

"I dunno," he said, scuffing his feet on the floor. "The priestess let us go early today, and I was walkin' past a house and a lady yelled to me. Said to go to the smith and find Enilroth. She was sorta cryin' but she gave me ten septims." His hand moved protectively to his pocket, and he was once again glaring up defensively, but Enilroth's stomach had turned over on itself.

"Was she a Bosmer?" he asked. "Did she look like me?" He gestured toward his ears, significantly longer than those of other elven races, and the boy slowly nodded. "Dark hair, green eyes, sort of…flighty?" The boy nodded again, but Enilroth already knew the answer. Cursing to himself, he paid the boy a few septims before scrawling a quick note to Varel and closing up shop.

Something had to be wrong, he thought as he quickly made his way through the streets, barely even noticing the beautiful day around him. His relationship with Hasathil was tentative at best, and nowhere near the point for her to be summoning him on a moment's whim. Heinrich, he thought darkly, it had to be something with Heinrich. When she'd stopped by the shop the week before, she'd mentioned that his ship was due in any day now. News must have come in, he must have been lost at sea. It was the only thing he could think of that would make her that upset anymore.

He bounded up the porch steps and rapped impatiently on the door, shifting his weight back and forth between his feet. When he'd finally left for good, Hasathil had demanded that he surrender his key to her husband's house. He hadn't minded at the time, but now, he was spitting curses under his breath. He banged on the door harder, wondering if he could manage to break in if she didn't answer, but before he could begin planning how to get his tools from the shop, the door flew inward.

There stood his mother, pale and trembling, her eyes puffy and rimmed by red. "Enilroth," she said shakily, and he clutched her shoulders.

"Mother, what is it? Has something happened? Is it Heinrich?" And to his surprise, his mother appeared absolutely bewildered.

"No!" She shook her head violently. "No, oh Enilroth, come and see. Come and see." And with that, she withdrew from the doorway, allowing him entrance to the house. Wordlessly, he stepped over the threshold into the cool dimness. The front room was a formal dining room, which he'd always thought was stupid, since Heinrich was at sea so often and Hasathil had few friends in Anvil. Nine months out of ten, it lay unused, cluttered with Hasathil's gardening tools. But beyond it lay the main sitting room, and Enilroth drifted over through the archway.

A figure sat at an alcove along the far wall, its back to the room. Enilroth glanced at his mother, who nodded frantically, and then took a step forward. Dark robes, tightly-woven braid, a glint of gold-tinged metal—dwarven? Elven?—at its side. Who _was_ this stranger? But then, as if it had sensed his presence, the figure turned around, and he felt as though a warhammer had been slammed into his gut.

"Hello, Enilroth." The gasp was silently forced from him, his jaw dropping at the impossible sight before him. A ghost. A ghost had wandered into his stepfather's house, and had sat down to tea with his mother.

She was dead. His sister had died long ago, perished in prison, unmade under the weight of the eight murders her young, untrained hands had somehow managed to commit. She was gone. She'd been gone for so long at this point, he could barely remember what it had been like before then. But suddenly, he remembered. He remembered what it'd been like to be a kid, racing out of the chapel after school, playing with his friends. And then he remembered how it'd felt, in a blink of an eye, for things to change. Before the forge. Before Faustina. Before the big house on the chapel street. Before the docks, even before the little run-down shack with the boarded-up windows.

But this woman—she smiled at him like that time still existed. And as he stared at her, a sickening feeling grew in the pit of his stomach as he began to recognize features of his sister. That lined, tightly drawn face was aged far beyond its time—and the eyes! The same deep moss color she had shared with him and his mother had morphed into a dull brown, duller than weather-beaten sides of Heinrich's ship. But the fierce light glowing from them, unreflected in the rest of her stoic features—that was new. Elbereth had always been so serene.

"Elby." His voice was a grating whisper, but as he spoke, her features softened, and she stepped forward.

"You've grown so tall," she murmured. And he didn't know what to say to that, so he just swallowed hard and nodded. She had taken another inching step toward him. "Can I hug you?" she asked. _No_. He didn't want this…this _stranger _touching him. But he could practically feel Hasathil beaming behind them, so he gruffly nodded and stepped forward to meet her embrace.

He was surprised by how solid she felt—a ghost was supposed to be ethereal, and besides, Elby had always been gangly, all long, spindly limbs. It wasn't just muscle, though—he was a smith, after all, and he recognized the feel of armor beneath her flowing, shapeless robes. But was the smell that really got to him, the smell of burning, of dead things, and maybe the faintest hint of something floral.

He eased his way out of her grasp and stared at her from a good arm's length away. "Why, Elby? _How?_" She sighed, easing herself back down into her chair, and he followed suit across from her.

"It's a long story," she said, picking up her teacup. "Like I told Mother, I can't believe it. I never thought I would see the two of you again." Her eyes bored into him, and he suddenly felt uncomfortable.

"How did you escape the prison?" he repeated, and she took a slow, deliberate sip of her tea before responding.

"I don't know if it was a lack of female prisoners, or if they were too afraid to put an accused murderer in with a cellmate." She spoke the m-word so callously it sent a cold thrill running down his spine. He and Hasathil _never_ referred to The Incident by name. "But when I arrived in the Imperial City, I was placed in an isolated cell." Her gaze suddenly dropped to her tea. "On the night of the assassinations, I found out why it was empty." She suddenly snorted. "It was an entrance to a secret escape route out of the City. Imagine the Blades' surprise when they're hurrying the Emperor along to safety and I pop up in their way."

"The Emperor?" His breath quickened. "You met _the Emperor_?" That was rich. Back when they were children, she'd always make up games for them to play: that they were knights on some mission of grave importance for the Emperor, and they'd run through the woods with imaginary horses and stick swords. And that was as close to rubbing shoulders with royalty as either of them would ever get. But she nodded.

"Enilroth, I don't even know how to describe him. He was…" Her gaze drifted off, over his head. "Wise. So incredibly wise. He looked at you, and you could swear he was looking straight into your soul." Something in her face twisted. "But he was so cryptic you couldn't help but wonder if he was simply mad." She suddenly gave a bitter laugh. "He walks into my cell and comes right up to me. Says he's seen me in his dreams. That our destinies are linked." Enilroth shifted uncomfortably, but she continued. "So he tells me to follow them, and I do. Almost right away, the assassins attack, and the Blade captain dies." She shook her head. "The assassins just keep coming, but the other Blades hold them off. Until we get to the end, and the exit's been blocked off."

She had pursed her lips, gaze zoned in on her hands folded in her lap as she quietly continued. "Then the assassins attack from behind, and we realize it was a trap all along. The Blades go back to engage the assassins, and then the Emperor tells me he has a final son, and hands me the Amulet of Kings."

"The Amulet of Kings?" Enilroth was vaguely aware of how nasty his voice sounded. "A priceless Imperial artifact, and he hands it to you just like that?" Her gaze snapped up to his, but her tone remained even.

"I know. I was panicked. Especially when another assassin came through a hidden panel and sliced him down before my eyes." He felt his jaw sag again, but there was something else nagging at him; the feeling that something just wasn't quite right. Watching the Emperor's assassination should have been a terrible, traumatic event, but her tone was flat, downright nonchalant, even. But then he remembered what she'd done, and pressed himself back in his seat a little further. "I was afraid I might be accused of being involved. It didn't look good, of course. There I was, standing over his body holding a valuable artifact. But when the surviving Blade came back over, he just let me go. He said the Septims were Dragonborn, and they saw things others didn't." She shrugged and fell silent.

"Then what?" he pressed. As unbelievable as her tale was, he was enthralled. All the turmoil that had engulfed the Empire in the past several years—was it really possible that his sister had played a role in it?

"Well, we found the Emperor's son. He's being kept safe, and we hope to have him crowned soon." A fog drifted over her face, and he had a suspicion there was more to the story, but something she had said stuck out to him.

"We?" he asked skeptically. She glanced guiltily away, then wordlessly reached up and unfastened her robes, tugging them open to reveal a chainmail cuirass, overlaid with smoke-stained white and the dark wolf's head of Kvatch.

He simply stared.

"The assassins were members of a Daedric cult," she said. "The Mythic Dawn, they call themselves. They're devoted to Mehrunes Dagon." She fastened up her robes again, quickly, as though she were embarrassed. "The Oblivion invasion is the _least_ of their schemes. I've been helping the Blades to deal with them so we can put Martin on the throne. Once he's crowned and the Dragonfires are relit, the invasion will end."

The front door was suddenly thrown open, and a booming shout rang out. "Hass? What is it? I was at docks and some kid came and said you were looking for me." Hasathil sprang up and rushed to the front room, and then her quiet murmur was heard, followed by a much deeper one. Elbereth's head had snapped in the direction of the door, and he eyed her hand that now rested on her sword hilt. She turned back to him as the whispers continued.

"Is that…?" she hissed. He nodded.

"Heinrich. Mother's husband. They've been married about three years now." He fidgeted in his seat. "Why didn't you try to find us?"

Her gaze snapped back in his direction, her eyes going wide, and he instantly felt slightly guilty. Only slightly. "I did," she whispered. "I went back to Bravil, and you weren't there. There was some _bitch_ living in the house, the Fighters Guild said she'd been let go, and the Count said you'd left months ago and he had no idea where you'd gone." Her expression had turned pleading. "I'm sorry, Enilroth. What was I supposed to do? I didn't know where to look."

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "How _did_ you find us, anyway?" he asked slowly, but Heinrich came bursting in, interrupting whatever she had been about to say.

"Well, there she is!" he boomed. Elbereth stood and extended a hand.

"You must be Heinrich," she said, a faint smile crossing her face.

"And you're Elbereth." He took her proffered hand and clasped it in both of his own, his weathered face practically beaming. "Little lady, you are just as beautiful as your mother. And I hear we have you to thank for closing that Gate! Charging headfirst into Oblivion like that—it's no small feat!" Heinrich grinned broadly, and she returned the smile, but he couldn't help but notice that she looked uncomfortable, and he was forced to hide his grin.

Heinrich continued to prattle on, telling Elbereth all about his ship, about Anvil, and about his recent trip delivering supplies to a settlement up along the coast that had been cut off from trade routes by an Oblivion Gate. "Imagine our surprise, when we got there only to find a celebrating village and a smoking pile of rubble. Little did we know that was all thanks to you!" He let out another booming laugh, but Enilroth noticed only Hasathil joined in.

Over dinner, however, Heinrich finally asked the question. "So tell us, Elbereth. What line of work were you in before closing Oblivion Gates?" His sister prodded a pile of peas with her fork.

"I'm a professional dungeon-delver," she said evenly. "Ayleid ruins, in particular. Mages always need magical stones for enchanting, but bandits and monsters usually don't agree with them too well. Or even if they can handle themselves, they're usually too absorbed in their magely duties to go traipsing around the province looking for them."

"Hmm." Heinrich cocked his head. "What's the market like for those these days? I'd think with the crisis and the trade routes shutting down folks would want to be spending their money on more practical things, mages or not." For some reason, Enilroth found himself watching his sister very closely, but she only shrugged.

"The power in a Varla stone could shield a city's entire population of mages," she pointed out. "Their money won't do them much good if they're dead."

"I suppose not," Heinrich said, but he looked doubtful. But at that moment, Hasathil swept back into the room with dessert, and the conversation moved on.

They sat around the table talking until well after midnight, and when Elbereth stood and announced that it was time for her to go, Hasathil insisted that she stay. And so Enilroth found himself upstairs, helping Hasathil make up his old room for her. "Can you believe it?" Hasathil asked as she tucked in the corner of a sheet. "The Nine have brought my little girl back to me. Oh, this is the happiest day of my life." And Enilroth rolled his eyes at the thought of the downright terrifying woman downstairs being referred to as a "little girl."

"So that's it, then?" he said. "She's just—back? We're going to ignore the past five years? We're going to ignore the fact that she's a _mur_—"

Hasathil dropped the pillow she was holding, whirling on him before he could finish the word. "_I don't care_," she hissed. "The Emperor pardoned her, and that's good enough for me. I finally have both my children back, Enilroth, don't you see what that means to me?" Her voice had turned pleading. "I don't care what she did, not anymore. All I care is that both my children are safe and happy. Although I doubt that applies to her, what with her going into those Oblivion Gates all the time. Oh, it makes me sick to think about it." Her eyes closed and she gave a little shudder.

"Well, she didn't look too happy, either," he muttered.

Hasathil began fluffing the pillow as she turned to her son. "I think I know what's going on here," she said gently. "She's been gone for so long, and it's hard for you now that she's getting all the attention." Enilroth stared at her, aghast. How old did she think he _was_, _twelve_? This was _exactly _the reason he'd left home in the first place

"Mother, _no_," he began, but she interrupted.

"She's your sister, Enilroth. At least that much hasn't changed." Hasathil smiled sympathetically, and he suddenly thought of a memory—the last memory. He'd gone charging into the Bravil house—hours before his life changed—and she'd been there. She'd laughed at him, rolled her eyes and smiled. That'd been the last time he ever saw that look on her face. From then on, she'd always be wearing the same tense, pensive expression she was wearing right now.

"Give her a chance," his mother was urging. "The two of you can go for a walk tomorrow, along the sea. Like we used to. You always loved the sea." He bent and straightened the last corner of the blanket.

"That area's been under Daedric siege for months, Mother," he pointed out. "It'll be a regular battlefield."

"But the Gate was closer to the road," she corrected. "And anything that ended up down by the water would have been washed out to sea. Besides, maybe you'll be able to recover some of those arrows you keep griping about." Her eyes narrowed in the way they did when she wasn't taking no for an answer, and so the next morning, he found himself trekking along the coast, his dark-robed sister trailing behind. She'd left her armor back at the house, he noted; without the tell-tale jingling, he had to keep turning around every few moments to make sure she was still there.

Surprisingly, Hasathil had been right: there was very little debris left over from the months of battle. They would occasionally come across the decomposing carcass of some daedric beast, and even some arrow half-buried in the sand or imbedded in driftwood, but it didn't escape his attention how pale his sister turned at the sight of the bodies. He didn't understand why it bothered her, though. Didn't she kill these creatures all the time? And it wasn't just monsters—she'd killed _people._

As they drew farther north up along the cliffs, though, the limited carnage decreased even further, and the noise of the sea grew softer as it crashed against the rocks down below them. They paused and sat, watching the great blue-gray expanse as it wrinkled out toward the horizon. And in the relative peace, Enilroth finally dared to ask the question, the one that'd been plaguing him for years. "Why'd you do it, Elby?" The silence multiplied between them as she ever-so-slightly turned her head in his direction, and so he pressed further. "Why did you kill them?"

"I _had_ to." She answered after a moment's hesitation, and when he finally dared to meet her gaze square-on, she wore a slightly gape-mouthed, wide-eyed expression, and he could see her struggling to maintain her composure. Obviously, she hadn't been expecting the question. He had a half-second's satisfaction that he'd unbalanced her, but she was stil speaking. "The law is the law, you were going to _prison._ I found a loophole, and I exploited it. That's all there is to it."

Her tone was dismissive, and he could feel himself growing strangly antagonistic, as five years of bad feelings suddenly welled up in him. "They're _dead_, Elby," he suddenly snapped. "You _killed _them, and now they're _dead_." Her head whipped around, eyes blazing.

"So?" It was a challenege, her brow furrowing in anger. "Are you telling me you would have rather gone to prison?" No, he wouldn't. But he couldn't keep pretending that nothing had changed, that she hadn't…

"They were _kids_, Elby!" His voice reached a new volume, and just like that, it escalated.

"So were you!" She leapt to her feet, and he followed suit. "See, you _haven't_ been to prison—but _I_ have. And it's no place for a child!"

"I was fourteen!" he objected, but she laughed bitterly.

"Exactly." She shook her head, her face twisting, and she quickly glanced out to sea—but not before he caught a glance of a faint glint in the corner of her eye. "I knew someone once who went at twelve. Even in adulthood, she still carried those scars." She turned back to him with a fierce glare, any trace of tears gone. "What about your apprenticeship? What about this girl Mother keeps telling me about? You wouldn't have any of that if you'd spent a year rotting in the Bravil prison."

"You don't know what it was was like." Hot rage was racing through his veins. "Nobody would even look at us once they hauled you away. Mother went and _begged_, did you know that? She begged before the Count, and he just had her thrown out of the castle. She lost her job, too, because the Fighters Guild didn't want to be associated with _you_!" He shoved her then, and she stumbled. But when she recovered, she returned the shove with a surprising strength, sending him staggering. He swung at her jaw, but she neatly ducked out of the way.

"Enough!" she shouted. "Stop it!" She had also evaded his second punch, so he dropped his fists to his sides, instead fixing her with the most withering glare he could conjure up.

"She couldn't find work, when we first got here. We lived in an abandonded shack. Still, we were lucky. I guess. We had a roof over our heads. And I think the longest we ever went without eating was…four days? Five?" She simply stared at him, her face blank.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I really am. I didn't want that for you. But trust me. It was better than prison."

"How would you know?" he shot back, and she snorted.

"I was a teenage felon who hadn't completed a formal education. I know what it's like to be poor, and I know what it's like to be hungry. And don't even get me started on Valenwood." He quickly moved away from that uncomfortable subject.

"What about the Blades, and your magic rocks? What about your precious Emperor?" he jeered. Her eyes narrowed.

"Things didn't fall into place quite that nicely, Enilroth. And don't be rude about Martin. He'll be a good Emperor. And I think you'd like him." And her face softened, lighting up ever so slightly the way he'd already noticed it did when she mentioned the alleged bastard prince.

"Doesn't change the fact that I don't even know who my sister is anymore," he muttered, turning to face the sea and crossing his arms over his chest. "You say I was a kid, so I didn't deserve prison. But they were kids, and they deserved to die? How's that any different?" He heard her sigh behind him, and the grass rustled as she came to stand beside him.

"I guess the difference is that you're my brother," she said slowly. He turned to face her, and her expression was earnest. "Had I been born to Meen-Sa, or Nastassja Dalomax, I—I probably would have celebrated when the Count made his decision. I think the same goes for anybody, though. They protect their own." She shrugged.

"Tell me something, though," she continued. "What exactly is it that bothers you the most? Is it really that they died? Or is it that I was the one who killed them?" It was his turn to be thrown off guard, faced with the frankness of the question. He fidgeted.

"I—I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe that it even happened in the first place." He laughed shortly. "Or maybe because you—you were just _gone_, Elby." He swallowed hard. "I didn't go to school that day. I was at the Fighters Guild with Mother. We didn't even know anything was going on. When she was done for the day we stepped outside and the streets were _filled _with guards. With Legion soldiers, too! And Mother—I remember she said something about it, how strange it was. That something must have happened."

"Enilroth, I—" she began, but he continued speaking.

"Then we walked up the stairs, and the door was just…splintered off the hinges. I think we both thought the worst at that point. I tried to hold her back, but Mother just went charging in. And there were guards. The house was full of them. And Mother started asking questions and crying, and they weren't giving answers. All they said was that there'd been a string of murders, and we had to go to the castle." The m-word slid past his lips, for the first time since it'd gained any meaning to their family. "So Mother marches up to the Count and demands to know what happened to you. And that's when he tells us. The names of the dead. That one survived long enough to name _you _as her attacker. And that you've been arrested and are waiting to be taken to the Imperial City."

She stared at him sadly. "I am sorry," she said. "I know none of that could have been easy. But I can't regret what I did. When I think about what you were spared, I can't." She was staring off to sea again. "But if you're looking for some sort of payback for it, I've been walking through Oblivon itself for the past six months. I've seen more suffering and death than a professional soldier. I can never escape the smell of burning, and I hear the screaming every time I close my eyes. And there's no end to it! There never will be any end to it! I carry Oblivion with me, and it haunts my every _second_, waking _and_ sleeping. Can you really ask for much more than that?!"

Her voice had risen so that she practically shouted the words at him, and he was immediately placed on the defensive. "Why are you yelling at me?!" he screamed back. And she paused, cocking her head to the side as she stared at him.

"I don't really know," she admitted. "Mostly I guess because I just wanted to shout at _someone_. I usually try not to let it get me because I have to be strong for Martin, you know?" She shook her head, pushing back a strand of faded red hair the wind had whipped free. "I'm sorry," she sighed. "I probably shouldn't be saying anything about it to you. I shouldn't be saying anything to _anybody_." Her mouth twisted sardonically. "I'm the Hero of Kvatch. My duty to the Empire is a privilege and an honor." But her tone was filled with mocking.

"So I get the brunt of the verbal abuse?" Despite himself, he could feel the corners of his mouth twitching upward. "I guess some things never change." And somehow, in that moment it finally clicked—that the bitter, broken woman standing before him and his complicated sister were one and the same. He was angry: angry over the pain her actions had caused, angry over losing her, and angry over the upheaval her return had brought. But he would get over it. He'd move on. And she was still Elbereth.

She was smiling too, albeit weakly. "You've grown up, Enilroth," she said suddenly. "Five years ago you wouldn't have kept your cool the way you did just now."

"Why does everyone act like I'm still a kid?" he protested, although it was half-hearted. "When you were my age you'd already done time and had moved on to rock hunting." The joke was out of his mouth before he could stop, and he found himself holding his breath, unsure of how she would react. But she threw back her head and laughed, and before long, they were chatting as though they'd never been apart.

She left that afternoon, determined to escort the unit of troops the Countess was sending to protect Bruma. She stopped by the house to collect the rest of her possessions, and after she and Hasathil had said their goodbyes, Enilroth walked with her the rest of the way to the city gates. Hasathil had been exceptionally teary, and Elbereth remarked on it with a small chuckle.

"You know how she gets," Enilroth agreed. "We actually didn't speak for a long time because of it. I guess she told you about that." Elbereth frowned.

"She said things were strained after you'd moved out. I thought everything was all right between the two of you, though. She said before the crisis you'd go on walks along the coast together."

"That's been a recent development," he admitted. "There were a lot of bad feelings after I left. It was actually years before we spoke again."

Elbereth frowned. "Oh?" she said. "What changed?"

He shrugged. "I needed some money last spring, and I'd been asking around and doing odd jobs for whoever needed them done. I ended up picking up this one that seemed real easy. All I had to do was make a simple delivery."

"But it wasn't simple?"

"Not at all." He sucked in a breath, remembering. "I get to where I'm supposed to go, only someone else is there waiting for me. Someone who wasn't _at all_ happy."

"Oh?"

"Scary dark figure in the strangest armor I've ever seen. I wouldn't even know where to _begin_ to try and craft a set. I got out of there as quick as I could, but they said the man who'd hired me was dangerous, and to keep my family away from him." He dropped his voice to a whisper, glancing around to make sure no one would hear the next part of the story, the part he hadn't told anyone until now.

"I didn't think too much more about it, but then for some reason the guards investigated the place he was living. And it was full of..._dead things_. Animals._ People_." The weight of the memory was suddenly just as oppressive as it'd been when he first heard the news. "I guess in some odd way the stranger had been looking out for me. But that was when I decided to go check on Mother, just in case. And that was when she and I began speaking again."

They had reached the stables, and she'd been saddling her horse. "That's horrible," she said. "I'm really glad you were safe, Enilroth. You and Mother both." She swung astride. "I'm so happy to have found you again," she said suddenly, earnestly. "I wish we would have had more time, but I'll be back. Once the crisis is over, and once Martin's been crowned. As soon as I can. I promise."

He smiled up at her. "Goodbye, Elby. Take care. And stay safe. I don't think Mother could bear to lose you a second time." Her smile faded slightly at his grim words.

"I will. You too. And keep an eye on Mother for me, will you?" He nodded, and she turned her mount to face the road. "I'm really glad that woman warned you. About that man, I mean. And that you and Mother are on good terms again." And then she rode off down the road after the cluster of brown cuirasses in the distance.

He hadn't told her the stranger had been a woman.


	49. Chapter 46: When the Sun Goes Down

**A/N: I've been hinting at a major announcement for a while, and, well, here it is.**

**As you've probably guessed, Shriller Than All the Music is drawing near to an end. We've wrapped up most of our major plot points, and all that's left is the end of the Main Quest, and without giving too much away, what comes after. We have less than ten chapters to go at this point, and I'm hoping to finish within the next few weeks.**

**However, as I look over earlier chapters, I realize I'm not quite happy with them. There was so much more I wanted to do with it, and so many better ways I could have handled things. So I've decided to go through and completely revamp Shriller.**

**For continuity's sake, I will probably pull this story from the site and republish it a few chapters at a time. I know it's incredibly annoying when authors do this, so just bear with me. Although I realize Oblivion stories aren't exactly in high demand these days, I'd rather take the time to have a well-written, well-developed finished product than to leave it as is. If you've been following along so far, I really hope you'll stick around for draft 2. Trust me, it'll be worth it.**

**In the meantime, however, I have several new projects I'll be working on. There were several characters and plot points in Shriller I wanted to explore further, so I have planned a series of oneshots involving these. I'll leave a list of these on my profile, so if you have any preferences as to which you'd like to see first, feel free to PM me. If not, I guess you'll just have to be surprised!**

**But what I'm really excited about is that after two years, I'm finally catching up with everyone else. For the past several months, I've been outlining a novel-length Skyrim story! I can't wait to start on this, and if you've enjoyed my work so far, I really hope you'll check it out.**

* * *

Chapter 46: When the Sun Goes Down

_Ichabod_

The first few times he heard the rumor, he didn't think anything of it. His research had hit a new bump and had grown more time-consuming than ever, and on top of it, he'd been asked to teach a class on beginning conjuration to the Apprentices. But as he picked his way past melting piles of slush as he approached the stairs down to the University courtyard, he overheard a snippet of conversation. "…received the battlemages' first report from Bruma last night. Apparently it's a madhouse up there; the camp's spilling into the streets and there are at least three fights a day."

He frowned, and suddenly veered off to his left, approaching the pair of mages heading toward the tower. "Excuse me. Did I hear you correctly? Battlemages have been sent to Bruma?" The mages exchanged a glance, and then one began to nod.

"Yes. Traven ordered a contingent a few days ago." He again glanced toward his companion, then leaned in closer. "But it's all been very hush-hush, and no one knows exactly _why_. Apparently the beginnings of a small _army_ have amassed there." His companion took a step forward and chimed in.

"There are theories that it's a plot to take control of the Empire. That Countess Carvain is taking advantage of the turmoil in the Elder Council and the Oblivion invasion," she whispered. "But the _composition _of this so-called army contradicts this—there are soldiers from every city, and even representatives of the Fighters Guild in addition to mercenaries and civilian militia. If Bruma were trying to seize control, there'd be no way the Counts and Countesses would be uniting—it'd be quite the opposite." She shook her head. "It just doesn't make sense." It didn't make sense, and even as Ichabod finished exchanging pleasantries and headed back to the Mystic Archives. And as he sat surrounded by scrolls and books on Ayleid writings, a reoccurring thought continued to plague him.

Cloud Ruler Temple. He'd located the elusive fortress on an obscure map several months previously, but had given it little thought until now. A mysterious army was amassing itself in the city that lay just down the mountain from this secret temple—and the one person he knew who had a connection to the latter would almost certainly know something about it.

He didn't know why the thought was torturing him so, even later that night as he tossed and turned in his bed. Whatever was happening in Bruma was of no concern to him. Traven was the one who had sent the battle mages, and so obviously he was the only one who should be concerned with it. But this was the same man who'd denied the Oblivion invasion, thereby inadvertently putting the entire guild at risk. And Ichabod had a sneaking suspicion that the man was clueless as to what—or rather, _who_—allegedly resided in the fortress just up the mountain.

It was none of his business, he repeated to himself, even as he rose and paced the length of his room. It was none of his business. Stay out of the way and work hard. Let your accomplishments speak for themselves. It'd been his mantra his entire life—but there was another voice speaking up in his head. _Traven's useless_, it whispered. _You're the only one who knows the truth. You can take matters into your own hands. For the good of the guild. Be the hero, for once in your life._

It was madness. It was pure, sheer, utter madness. But in the cold grey light of dawn, he was striding through the City, wrapped in his travel cloak and tightly clutching the straps of his pack. He left behind a hurriedly scrawled note, stating that he was gone on urgent business and requesting that someone step in to cover his class. But with every step he had an urge to turn and flee back, to explain that it'd all been a mistake, that he'd never abandon his duties again.

But once he made it outside the City, he felt his resolve harden a little further. This was a good thing he was doing, he reminded himself, for the sake of the guild. He called out to a woman filling a water barrel inside the corral as he approached the stables. "Are there horses available for rent?" She glanced over her shoulder before she turned to him, pushing aside the hood of her cloak.

"Yes," she said, but Ichabod got the sense that she seemed uneasy. "If you'll just hold on a moment…" She set aside her bucket and retrieved a rope halter hanging from the side of the building before heading toward a nearby horse, a bay with a short, sparse mane. Ichabod hesitated for a moment, then called after her.

"Ah—excuse me. Um…is there another one available? One in particular, I mean. A little grey mare? I think her name was…oh, what was it again? It started with a P…Penelope? Persephone?" And to his surprise, the woman's eyes widened in shock.

"Pamela?" she asked, and at his nod, a look of horror spread across her face. "Excuse me just for a moment," she said, and then fled, disappearing behind the stable. Ichabod frowned, leaning up against the fence. He really didn't have time for this. But then the woman reappeared, walking slowly toward him, head bowed. "I'm terribly sorry, but…" she began, but an angry shout cut her off.

"Fine! He can have her." And a furious-looking woman also appeared around the corner of the stable—leading a familiar looking mare. She stomped forward and shoved the rope into Ichabod's hands. "Here. Take her." She sent Ichabod a bone-withering glare before turning on her heel and exiting the corral, slamming the gate behind her with such force the entire fence rattled.

"I'm terribly sorry about that," the other woman said apologetically. "I'll help you saddle her. And…" Here, she hesitated. "I'm just really sorry. Chestnut Handy Stables takes the best possible care of the mounts stabled here." And she fled into the stable, leaving a bewildered Ichabod standing there with an oddly frazzled-looking mare. What in Oblivion was going on here?

But a few minutes later, Pamela was saddled and he was riding away, following the faint path that lead north along the City Isle toward a small bridge to the mainland. The shortcut would avoid heavy traffic and take several hours off his trip, and Pamela seemed to calm down as they rode through the morning mist. Despite her earlier nervousness, she was surefooted and responsive as he'd remembered, although he'd forgotten how small she was. He'd had to hike up the stirrups in order for his heels to reach her sides, leaving his knees drawn up and slightly splayed out. He was sure they'd look ridiculous to anyone who saw, but the unsettled part of the City Isle was populated only by a few scant herds of deer.

He stopped in a small village mid-morning and bought a hunk of bread and an apple. A young Dunmer had run out and gotten a bucket of water for Pamela when he'd ridden up, and had grown excited when he'd caught sight of Ichabod's robes. He'd bombarded him with questions about being a mage, and animatedly told him some wild story about a crazy wizard living in a fort down the hill as Ichabod had nodded and calmly ate his apple.

The next part of his journey, however, turned out to be quite different from the first. What started out to be a wide stone path winding through gentle, rolling hills quickly turned into a treacherous, jagged path cutting straight up the mountain, and he was forced to awkwardly pitch his weight forward, his muscles straining as hardy little Pamela plugged away up the mountainside. He had never been so relieved as he was to see the walls of Bruma come into sight. He resisted the urge to enter the city and confirm for himself the rumors of the army, and instead continued around the city walls. But his heart sank once they rounded the city only to see the next leg was roughly the equivalent of climbing straight up the face of a cliff.

The further north they'd gotten, the colder it had become, with a heavy snowfall still spread as far as he could see in every direction. And as they scaled the mountain, he began to grow afraid as the wind started to furiously whip past them and Pamela's hooves started to slip on icy patches. His fingers and toes had long since grown numb, along with his ears and nose. This had been such a stupid idea, he realized as Pamela struggled along, his death grip on the saddle the only thing keeping him from sliding right off. And then, he had the sudden thought: what if he'd been wrong about Cloud Ruler Temple? What if it wasn't here at all?

What had he been thinking? What good could possibly come of this? He was just a Magician on a power trip, and had no business poking into the affairs of the guild. So Traven had been wrong about an unprecedented situation. Big deal. How could that have possibly given him the idea that he had a right to take matter into his own hands? He was going to freeze to death up here on this mountain, he realized suddenly, and he'd be the laughingstock of the guild.

But then, miraculously, a shadowy set of walls rose up before him, and he breathed a deep sigh of relief. He slid off Pamela's back onto a set of shaky legs, and drew the reins over her head, his thick, clumsy fingers clutching the stiff leather. The gates of the place were tightly shut, and there were no signs of activity, save for a few plumes of smoke drifting upward from overhead. He was wondering what to do next when a shout rang out. "Who goes there?"

He shifted his gaze upward and cleared his throat. "My name is Ichabod," he shouted hoarsely. "I'm a Magician at the Arcane University. I'm a friend of Lily's—er, the Hero of Kvatch. She said I could find her here." There was only silence, and he was afraid his words had been lost to the wind.

"Another friend, eh?" the voice said, and he vaguely wondered what that meant. "Just a moment." There was another pause, and then with a grinding of gears, the gates began to swing open. A figure stood on the other side in an unfamiliar armor, a style he vaguely recognized as Akaviri, and he suddenly realized that he was coming face to face with a Blade—one of the Emperor's personal bodyguards. He sucked in his breath, and wondered if he should bow or make some gesture of respect, but the man only snatched Pamela's reins from his hand.

"You can go on up," he said, gesturing over his shoulder. "The excitement's already started." He shook his head, and Ichabod grew more confused than ever. He quietly thanked the man, and then began to trek up the narrow, icy steps leading up into the heart of the fortress. Twice, he almost stumbled, but he made it to the top without tumbling back down. He emerged into a strangely deserted courtyard, and he found himself glancing around uneasily as he approached the main hall. Another Blade, this one with a thick woolen muffler wrapped about her face, stood at the entrance. He hesitated, but she nodded and gestured toward the door. Grasping the heavy iron handle, he hauled it open and stepped inside.

And there, he was met by the most raucous display he'd ever seen in his life. It was an argument, by the looks of it, and it was downright vicious. Shouts and jabbing, accusatory fingers rose up from Blades packed into every corner of the room. A snarling Dunmer in a black, tight-fitting armor was spitting curses. A similarly-outfitted Nord's fingers were twitching toward her bow. And standing calmly in the center of it all—the eye of the storm—was a man in the most elaborate set of armor he'd ever seen. Imperial Dragon armor. Ichabod's stomach lurched, and he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was looking at the last of the Septims.

But then, an all too familiar voice rang out. "_Ichabod?_" The noise died down to a slight murmur, and the crowd parted to make way for a figure in a Kvatch cuirass. His breath caught in his throat.

"Lily," he said, and he could hear the amazement in his own tone. She was far more haggard than she'd been the last time he'd seen her only six months ago, and the weary aura emanating from her made _him_ feel exhausted—or perhaps that was just the effects of his grueling ride. But a fierce light was sparking in her eyes as she drew close and tightly hugged him, the rings of her chainmail digging in through his robes.

"Care to explain, Lily?" an older Breton asked irritably. "Who is this? What's he doing here?" She turned to the Breton, taking hold of Ichabod's arm and leading him forward.

"This is Ichabod, Jauffre. He's a very old, very dear friend. I trust him completely." The Breton made a small noise of either disagreement or contempt, but made no other comment. Off to the side of his vision, he caught sight of the Septim eyeing him with curiosity. Lily turned to face him as she drew him into the circle and the argument resumed—albeit in much lower volumes. "I am glad to see you," she said, her own voice much lower as well. "But I'm afraid you've arrived at an inopportune time. There's a…situation at the moment, and I'm afraid it requires my undivided attention." The Dunmer scoffed loudly, and Ichabod realized he was listening in.

"Situation?" he demanded angrily. "Does he really have no idea what's going on?" Every head in the room turned in their direction, and Ichabod felt himself shrink a little under their gaze. The Dunmer elbowed several Blades out of his way and snatched hold of Ichabod's hand, shaking it briefly. "Zirik Samarys. House Dres," he said brusquely. "Sorry to interrupt your little reunion, but the Mythic Dawn are about to unleash a full-scale assault on the city, and we've got a battle to plan."

An indignant murmur rose up from the crowd, and Lily wearily rubbed at her temples. "Zirik, _please_," she said, but he merely shrugged.

"It is true." A Blade stepped forward. "No sense in keeping it from him. He has a right to know what he's walked into." He turned and regarded Ichabod with dark, serious eyes. "I'm Baurus," he said. "I'm sorry, but you've chosen the worst possible time to come here. By the time the sun goes down, the foot of this mountain will be crawling with daedra."

Ichabod felt as though he were going the numb. "The army," he heard himself say, and the others around him nodded.

"We've been keeping them at bay for months," Zirik's companion chimed in. "Only now, it seems the key to driving out for good is to _let_ them take the city." There was venom in her tone, and Ichabod's blood run cold.

"Wait, _what?_" he began, but Lily loudly interrupted.

"They will _not_ be taking the city," she snapped. "We'll let them open the Great Gate, but I'll close it _before_ the siege engine gets through." The voices began rising again, but it was as though he was hearing them through a fog.

What a fool he'd been. What a stupid, stupid fool. He hadn't actually been on a mission for the guild. He'd only been looking for an excuse to satisfy his own curiosity, and the contingent of battlemages at the foot of the mountain had provided him with the perfect opportunity. He'd actually thought it was a good idea to ride up to the gates of the stronghold where the last heir was being held. It was a miracle that he hadn't been killed on sight. And now here he was, in the middle of something far bigger than the neat little world he'd constructed for himself, bigger than the guild even. The Oblivion invasion was coming to a head, and he suddenly realized that the fate of their world itself was being balanced right here before him.

His blood had come unfrozen; it was pounding through his veins. He thought of his life: of his carefully-planned career, of his calculated rise through the Mages Guild ranks. He thought of the little room in the Mystic Archives he'd spent so much of the past five years locked away in. And he thought of his father, fleeing the Legion draft and making his way as a hunter. He thought of the dank ruin where his meticulous research had begun—merely feet away from a dead necromancer. He thought of the lonely road where he'd summoned his first Kynval, of the pounding presence of a Daedric Lord inside his skull. And he thought of a challenge. _Are you really so afraid of conflict?_

_Yes,_ he whispered silently, voice frozen in terror. _Yes, I am._ But then the other, deadlier voice spoke up again. _Be the hero,_ it urged. And then, to his horror, he heard his voice speaking. "All right," he said. "Where do you need me?"

The room fell silent. Every eye was locked on him. Then there was the sound of a throat being cleared. "Ichabod," Lily said carefully, "you _do _realize what's about to happen. Right?" He nodded.

"Oblivion gates are going to open. _Multiple_ gates," said that Blade—Baurus, was his name. "Great flaming portals. And all manner of daedric creatures are going to come pouring through. There's going to be a lot of confusion, a lot of panic, and a lot of death." Ichabod swallowed hard.

"I'm a conjurer," he said boldly. "There won't be anything I haven't seen before. I can summon a high-ranking Dremora that can rally the foot soldiers against their own kind." There was a loud snort.

"And what happens when you lose control over it?" Zirik demanded.

"I don't." Ichabod met his gaze square on.

"Ever?" the Dunmer sneered.

"Never," he shot back. "I'm _very_ good." He never made such boasts, but the Dunmer shrugged, and Ichabod got the sense he'd passed a test of some sort.

"Have you ever been in a battle?" another Blade asked. "Like Baurus said, it'll be massive, widespread panic. Whatever you think you're expecting, the reality will be far, _far_ worse. You can conjure up some beasts to fight for you, but can you really defend yourself?" He shook his head. "I don't think this is a good idea."

"I'd never seen a battle." Lily suddenly spoke up, and the attention shifted to her. "Before the crisis. Kvatch was my first." She took a step forward, joining Ichabod in the center of the circle. "And I've lost track of the number of Gates I've gone into, but I've survived just fine. Even though my own fighting style is purely evasive. I could never go head to head with these creatures, either." There was another murmur that spread through the crowd. "Ichabod's a Conjurer—and I mean rank, not just school."

"Magician," he corrected quietly.

"Magician?" She turned to him in surprise. "Oh—congratulations!" She turned back to the crowd, beaming triumphantly. "Sorry—he's a Magician. And you don't get that high without relative mastery of _all _schools. He knows some heavy-hitting destruction magic—and that staff of his is charged with a _mean_ fireball. And we're talking about this as a last resort—_if_, and that's a big if—his conjured creatures fail." She turned to the older Breton. "We can put him between the archers and the battlemages. That should get him close enough to maintain control, but still out of the line of fire. Would that work?" This last question was directed toward Ichabod. His heart was still pounding, but he nodded. In truth, he had no idea. Maybe that Blade was right, he thought suddenly. Maybe this was a mistake.

"You see?" Another voice rang out then, full of a quiet authority, and Ichabod didn't even need to turn around to see that the Septim was speaking. "He unknowingly wanders into our midst and immediately offers up his life to fight for a city he doesn't call his own. How can I ask this of him and not do the same myself?"

Ichabod turned to stare at the elusive heir. He had a face even more weary than Lily's, with a heaviness in every crease of his face, the world-worn look of a man who had seen too much suffering than anyone should have to. But his eyes—they were the bluest Ichabod had seen, bluer than Lake Rumare, bluer than sapphires, bluer than inky veins of a Welkynd stone—crackling with that same energy he saw in Lily's.

"My lord, we've already been over this," the Breton said wearily, but then Lily interjected.

"Martin, can I speak with you for a moment?" There was an edge in her voice that he didn't recognize, but the Septim nodded, and as the Blades dispersed and drifted away, he followed suit. Lily and the heir drew away as well, making their way to the far corner of the room. A few of the Blades—Baurus, the older Breton, and another he didn't recognize—had joined them as well, and although he couldn't hear what was being said, they appeared to be in the middle of a quite animated argument.

He began to grow exceedingly uncomfortable as the minutes dragged on—partly because of his own uninvited presence, and partly because Zirik had parked himself against a pillar across from Ichabod. The Dunmer never took his gaze from Ichabod's as he withdrew a dagger and began trimming his nails with it. So he instead began to glance around the room. The tables were scattered with maps, books and alchemy equipment, and there was a circle of bizarre symbols he recognized as daedric runes scrawled on the floor before the massive, roaring fire. These were common sights at the University, but somehow, here beneath the solemn rows of blades hanging from the ceiling, they seemed out of place.

He shifted his attention back to the argument, where the heir was standing calmly as Lily and the Blades seemed to grow increasingly agitated. But then, the Blades' expressions were clearing, and they began to nod. They then stepped away, but Lily was still gesturing wildly, a deep furrow creasing her brow. The heir took hold of her shoulders as he spoke, and she began chewing on her lip anxiously. The heir then shook his head, leaning forward and saying something beside her ear. And then, as Ichabod watched in stunned silence, she turned her head toward the heir and they kissed.

He quickly looked away, embarrassed. He'd never been comfortable with public displays of affection, but _Lily_…and the soon-to-be _Emperor_? It would never work, he thought nastily. He was a prince…and she was _Lily._ He glanced up again in their direction, and the heir was smiling now. Standing there in that ridiculous armor with that ridiculous expression, determined to go play king on the battlefield, when it was obvious he didn't know what he was doing. Why else would his bodyguards be so determined to keep him away from the fighting, when it was essentially part of an Emperor's _job_? This mysterious prince was a grown man behaving like a child. Shameful. He scoffed—then suddenly wondered where this resentment was coming from, as it surged through his veins like adrenaline. And then—then it clicked. All of it.

Startled by his newfound revelation, he looked once more toward Lily, but the heir had stepped forward and had raised his voice. "Blades," he called, "today I will be joining you on the field of battle." So he was getting his way after all. A murmur went up from the Blades, but then Lily was striding quickly toward him. She snatched hold of his sleeve as she passed, jerking him along with her.

"Come," she muttered. "Come with me." And she charged straight out of the main hall and across the courtyard to the stables, where she sagged against the wall.

"What is it?" he asked quickly. Suddenly, he didn't know how to conduct himself. She shook her head.

"Martin is determined to lead the defense," she muttered, glancing over her shoulder in the direction of the setting sun. "I know it's what he's supposed to do as Emperor, and I know he's been doing some training with Baurus, but…" She let out a long sigh, and looked up to squarely meet his gaze. "I don't like it, Ichabod. I don't like it one bit." She shook her head, and turned into the stable, only to stop short.

"Pamela!" she exclaimed. "Did you bring her here?" He nodded.

"I asked for her specifically, but it was the strangest thing. The woman there panicked when I mentioned her, and then they brought her out, only they seemed so angry about it, and she was really worked up, too… I knew this man back in Chorrol who always used to say 'Horses are only good for eating!' and he would always be so passionate about it. I hope—and I may be reading too much into it, here—but I hope they weren't about to eat her…" He trailed off as he realized he was babbling, but Lily was scratching Pamela's neck, and didn't seem to be paying attention.

"Oh look, and she's getting along with Shadowmere, too," she said affectionately. Sure enough, Pamela was nuzzling against Lily's terrifying steed—but Ichabod couldn't help notice that the other mare's ears were laying flat back against her skull. "Shadowmere even hates _Blossom_." She turned to her own mount and began quickly saddling her. "You can ride with me," she said. "She's strong enough, and poor Pamela looks exhausted."

"Where are we going?" he asked cautiously. Suddenly, he had a thought—what if he was being sent back to the University? The heir, he though sourly, the heir had probably ordered him to be kept out of the fight. But Lily was leading Shadowmere out of the stable.

"Into Bruma," she explained as she mounted. "The Countess needs to know that we're planning on letting the enemy proceed with their attack." She offered a hand, and he scrambled up behind her.

"Has that been the plan all along?" he asked slowly, but then his heart caught in his throat as the mare began to descend the stairs, and he was nearly knocked from the saddle as Lily suddenly threw her weight back.

"No," she sighed. "They were just supposed to be there to keep Mythic Dawn activity under control. They have a presence in every city, but they figured out months ago that Martin was here. And if Bruma falls, it's a straight shot to Cloud Ruler Temple. They've had excessive activity here all winter, but the army's been taking care of it."

"So why let them proceed with their attack?" None of this was making sense. But when she didn't answer for a moment, he had a feeling he wouldn't like her answer.

"Same reason I needed the Daedric artifact. It's the only way to get the last item needed to open a portal to get the Amulet back. Martin has everything else ready to go." Shadowmere was surging down the mountain now, picking her way along as sure-footedly as a mountain goat.

He tried not to look down, but the sight of the ground blurring beneath them was dizzyingly hypnotic, so he scrunched his eyes shut and asked another question. "What item? Lily, what _is _this ritual?"

Again, she was slow to respond. "It's Daedric magic," she said finally, and he drew in a sharp, hissing breath. "I don't know if you're familiar with the writings of Mankar Camoran, but he's the leader of the Mythic Dawn. He used Mehrunes Dagon's power to hollow out his own little corner of Oblivion. He calls it his 'Paradise.'" The walls of Bruma were looming up ahead. "And the final item we need for the ritual it a Great Sigil Stone."

He frowned. "A what?"

"The anchors that hold the Oblivion Gates open. A Sigil Stone is common enough; I have a whole chest full back at the Temple. But a _Great_ Sigil Stone…" She shook her head. "You can only get one of those from a Great Gate." She paused. "That's what they brought the siege engine through at Kvatch. What they used to blast apart the city."

A shiver ran down his own spine, and it wasn't from the cold. But they had arrived in Bruma, and minutes later, they were standing before the Countess. A stately, regal woman, she stared down at them from her throne with an ice-cold stare. But judging from the way she greeted Lily, she had had dealings with her before.

"There was another fight yesterday," she said bluntly as they approached. "Cheydinhal and the battlemages. My men broke it up at the same time two Mythic Dawn agents were intercepted on the west road." He noticed Lily winced the same time he did.

"I'm sorry about that, ma'am," Lily said. He'd never heard that tone of voice from her before, soft and submissive. "But there's a situation, and they're going to be seeing some action here real shortly."

"Oh?" The Countess raised an eyebrow. "What's this, now?"

He heard Lily take a deep breath. "The Mythic Dawn are preparing a ritual to open up a Great Gate as we speak." The Countess sat up straighter in her seat.

"Okay," she said calmly, but a deep frown creased her face. "I'll have Captain Burd send out some troops to take care of it." But Lily shook her head.

"No, ma'am. You see—" She hesitated. "We talked about it up at Cloud Ruler Temple, and we're…we're going to let them go ahead and go through with it."

"_Excuse me?_" The Countess rose from her throne, eyes blazing with fury, and Ichabod couldn't help but shrink back a little in terror. "You're going to just…_feed_ them _my city_ on a silver platter?" She shook her head. "Absolutely not. I cannot—_will not_—allow this."

"Begging your pardon, ma'am, but we have no choice." Lily spoke up beside him. She stepped forward and stared levelly at the Countess. "You may have heard the whispers, about the last Septim being kept up at the Temple. And they're absolutely true." She took another step forward. "Once Martin Septim has been crowned Emperor, he can relight the Dragonfires in the Temple of the One, and restore the magical barriers between Oblivion and Nirn. Only that will end the invasion."

"So there _is _an heir to the throne!" The Countess rose from her throne. "Then _why_ hasn't this been done already?" she demanded.

"Because to do that, we need the Amulet of Kings," Lily stated calmly. "And it's not on Nirn." The Countess didn't respond. "It's been stolen, by the leader of the Mythic Dawn. There's a ritual we can use to get it back, but we need a Great Sigil Stone. From a Great Gate." The silence stretched out, tangible and unbearable, until the Countess finally spoke.

"I will admit—you are the first I've heard to speak of victory in this war." She strode down the steps, and began to pace in front of them. "Yet this is a desperate plan—a desperate plan indeed." She suddenly whirled on Lily. "This…prince? Emperor? _Martin_ would risk my entire city, not just my army and my militia, but the common citizens as well? Farmers…shopkeepers…the elderly and the children?"

"Martin made his home in Kvatch before this." Lily's voice was little more than a whisper. "He knows very well the risk." She took another step forward. "I've spent the winter closing countless Gates. This will be no different. May I remind you, my lady, of the army filling your courtyard and your streets. They'll be more than enough to hold the daedra off, and as soon as the Great Gate opens, I'll get inside and close it."

The Countess had resumed her pacing. "This war has seemed so hopeless," she mused out loud. "All I've been able to do is sit here and try to keep my people alive a little longer, and hope that a Hero arrives to save us." She paused and face Lily. "And now, it seems that we have not only an heir, but a Hero as well."

A Hero? They called her the Hero of Kvatch, but by the reverent inflection in her tone, he recognized that the Countess spoke of something far different: a unique destiny, and a calling from the gods. Could she be one? He watched her intently, but her face remained stoic.

"Martin is on his way to the Chapel of Talos as we speak. He requests that you meet him there for a council of war."

To his surprise, the Countess' face actually broke into a smile, her eyes dancing. "You avoid answering my question," she said pointedly, and he thought he saw the faintest coloring flush Lily's face as her eyes flitted downward. The Countess sighed. "Very well," she said. "I will order men to assemble, and I will meet with this Martin."

"Thank you, my lady." Lily quickly bowed, and then once more, grabbed hold of his sleeve. He hardly had the time to give his own bow before she practically dragged him from the throne room.

She was leading back toward the city's north gates, albeit a different route. And this time, he had the opportunity to see the portions of the camp that were spilling into the streets. He recognized the blue cuirasses of Chorrol among them, and he even thought he saw hoods matching his own robes bobbing amongst the tents. The scant fires were surrounded by grimy, haggard soldiers with weather-battered faces, and he thought how it must have been for those who had been trapped there all winter. No wonder there were so many fights.

But there was a whisper, a murmur spreading through the camp, and many of them began craning their necks and emerging from tents, looking at something in the direction they were headed. Ahead of him, Lily stopped short, and he looked up to see a group of Blades approaching, led by Martin.

He strode directly up to Lily. "Well?" There was an anxiety in his eyes, a tension spreading across his face.

"She's waiting in the Chapel." He could barely hear Lily's soft reply, despite his close proximity to them. "She said yes." The heir let out a sigh of relief, the tension fading.

"Good," he breathed. "I couldn't just…her city…" He trailed off, his eyes flicking out across the snow-capped rooftops, and Lily suddenly reached out, touching his face.

"Look at me," she said, and obediently, he shifted his gaze to meet hers. "You can do this," she said. "You're descended from a long line of Septims. Their blood flows through your veins. _Dragon_ blood." Ichabod suddenly got the sense that he was intruding, but turning and walking away would have been painfully obvious. Instead, he took a few shuffling steps to the side and tried—unsuccessfully—not to listen. "You can do this," she repeated. "Now walk in there, and be the Emperor you were meant to be."

He glanced up to see the heir nodding, and then Lily was beside him once more. "To the Chapel," she said, and they set off again through the camp, more and more soldiers emerging to line the streets as they passed.

They strode through the doors of the Chapel, where the Countess and a tall, grizzled Nord were waiting by the altar. As they made their way down the aisle, the Blades began to draw back, stepping aside to line the edges, and Ichabod began to glance around, unsure of where he was supposed to be._ You're _not _supposed to be here in the first place,_ a tiny voice in his head reminded him, but luckily, Lily drew him aside with her, standing off to the side in front of the first pew.

The Countess and the heir stared at each other tersely for a few seconds, until she spoke. "So you're Martin," she said, and to Ichabod's surprise, she actually curtseyed deeply. "Your Highness, it's been a long time since Bruma had the honor of the Emperor's presence. I am Narina Carvain, Countess of Bruma, at your service.

"Thank you for coming, my lady. But there is no need for such formality at this time," the heir said gravely. "I am not Emperor yet, and I must admit, this notion is still quite new to me." He paused. "I know what I am asking. Kvatch was my home, and I understand all too well the risks. But if there were any other way, I would not suggest this."

And the Countess nodded. "Your champion has already explained the situation quite thoroughly," she said briskly. "This war will not be won through caution and hiding. Bruma and her allies are at your disposal."

"You have a rare gift to know when desperation is the path of wisdom," the heir said, the relief heavy in his tone. "I will do everything in my power to defend your city." The Countess gave a tight-lipped smile.

"If Bruma falls, the Empire falls with us," she said grimly. "So be it." She and Martin exchanged nods, and he turned to the Blade lining the aisle.

"Come, let us go down to battle together," he declared, and strode toward the doors, the Blades falling in behind him.

They emerged to the most uproarious noise Ichabod had ever heard, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. What appeared to be the entire population of Bruma was gathered outside the Chapel, lining the streets leading to the city gates. And rising up from them was a steady chant, a multitude of voices rising in a single shout. "_All hail the Emperor! Hail Martin Septim! Hail Martin!_" the crowd roared. And despite it all, despite his misgivings toward the man, despite the fact that he was about to walk into the first real fight of his life, the energy of the crowd was infectious, and Ichabod began to feel it as well, the stirrings of something the Empire hadn't had in years. Hope. There was an emperor—an heir to the throne—and now, there was a chance to win this war.

Outside the gates, he felt his jaw drop once again at the sight of the army. The rainbow of cuirasses all stood at attention, looking ready for battle and downright deadly. Martin and Lily stepped forward, along with a few of the Blades, to meet with the same Nord who'd stood beside the Countess in the Chapel, along with several other guards who he assumed were the leaders of their cities' units. After a few minutes in their huddle, they broke apart. "Forward!" bellowed the Bruma captain. And the army neatly split into units and surged forward.

They approached a wide white plane on the outskirts of Bruma, and around him, Ichabod could see the army neatly arranging themselves. He'd been sticking with the Blades, but now, he could see them splitting apart, falling into their positions. Where was he supposed to be? He glanced around, frantic. He was the only one unarmored, sticking out painfully in the sea of metal. Why was he doing this again? They'd tried to explain it to him, tried to urge him to save himself. But he hadn't listened.

_Be the hero_, the voice in his head urged once more, and he nearly laughed out loud. He was no hero. He was a brainless mage with a too-big curiosity on a power trip. But here he was, in the middle of a downright deadly situation, and the only way out was to run. Only that simply wouldn't do. He thought of his father, living his life on his own terms, by his own principles. He thought of Lily, walking through Oblivion, plucked out of nothingness to face an uncertain destiny. And he even thought of the heir, untrained and inexperienced, but doing his duty nonetheless.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to think. Where had the said he should be positioned? Between the archers and the battlemages? He glanced around once more, and saw that he was directly in the middle of a group of soldiers wielding axes. Behind him, he could see a cluster of battlemages, and behind them, a long line of archers. He began picking his way through the ranks, trying to look purposeful, as though he hadn't blundered into the thick of it by mistake. Despite the stares (and the fact that his face was flaming), he took up a position between them, near the end, so his summoned servants would have a clear path to the action.

Around him, the others were preparing, yanking their weapons from the sheaths, reading bows with arrows. He sent a wave of shielding magic over himself, and as it settled, clinging to his robes, he planned his first spell. He caught sight of several figures in armor similar to Zirik's taking place among the ranks, but then he heard the heir's voice.

"Soldiers of Cyrodiil!" he shouted, pacing along the front lines. "The Empire will stand or fall by what we do here today! Will we let the daedra do to Bruma what they did to Kvatch? Will we let them burn our homes? Will we let them kill our families?" And from the army rose a single, resounding _No!_ "We make our stand here today for the whole of Cyrodiil! We _must_ hold fast until the Hero of Kvatch can destroy their Great Gate. We must kill _whatever_ comes out of that Gate!"

There was something wrong, something changing in the air. It was too dry, too warm, bearing the slightest hint of sulfur. Above them, the sky had taken on a reddish tint, far too sinister for the sunset. And Ichabod's stomach turned over on itself, as he realized, _Oblivion was coming for them_. "_Soldiers of Cyrodiil!_" the heir screamed. "_Do you stand with me?_" And as the roar of agreement rose up, chaos erupted.

For a moment, he was frozen, transfixed by the sight before him. His heart threatened to rip from his chest, his legs had melted to puddles of jelly. They sky had been rent apart, claws bearing flame had sprung up from the ground itself, and the demons—oh, the creatures of nightmares that surged from them. But the worst of it was just as they'd said—the _death_. It was everywhere, in the screams, in the limp fallen bodies, in the dark spurts of gore spraying across the once-pristine snow. And he knew—he'd made the greatest mistake of his life. _Too late_, the voice said. _Too late for regret. Fight for your life. FIGHT!_

He forced himself into action. Raising his trembling hands, he rasped out the incantation of a spell, and a hell hound surged forth, bursting from a cloud of energy. _Fight,_ he urged it on. _Tear. Kill. Take down the daedra._ It obliged, ripping its way through several scamps and taking a chunk out of a Dremora before being trampled by a clannfear, disappearing back into the waters of Oblivion with a puff of orange.

His heart was still thundering harder than it ever had in his life, but the next breath he drew in was slightly less shaky than the previous one. He lifted his hands again, and this time, a hunger emerged. Soldiers swung blows at it, but moved on when it didn't return their attacks. A few seemed to catch on to the fact that it was on their side, however, and actually began working with it, taking down the Dremora it had weakened.

And then, with an impossible noise like shrieking thunder, longer spines broke through the ground, and the Great Gate had opened. In the distance, he saw Lily sprinting toward it, dwarfed by its impossible size. He let the spell die in his hands as he drifted forward, a horrible feeling boiling in the pit of his stomach. She drew closer, closer still, and he was suddenly afraid that any moment she would burst into flames. But then she was right upon it—and she disappeared.

He stared for a moment, but then an arrow whizzed past his head, and his resolve hardened. His terror had been replaced with a grim focus, and now it was time to unleash his most powerful attack. Renewing his shield spell, he lifted his hands, and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead as he reached into Oblivion and _pulled_.

It was fighting. It was fighting harder than anything he'd ever summoned before, and his concentration was slipping. But he had a firm hold on it, and he would pull it through. He _had_ to pull it through. For Lily. She'd entered into Mehrunes Dagon's realm, and it was only right for them to claim one of his servants in return. That thought spurred him on, and with a flash of magic, he wrestled it onto Nirn.

Instantly, it whirled on him. "_No!_" it shrieked in its terrible, metallic voice. "_Unfair, mortal! Unfair!_" Ichabod gritted his teeth. He couldn't lose control, he _must_ keep it under control.

"Rally your troops, Kynmarcher," he commanded. "Fall upon every daedra you see." It growled; a growl that morphed into an unworldly shriek. And it fought him. It was more than a battle of magic; it was a battle of _wills_. He didn't know how long they were locked into position there, staring each other down as he struggled to force it to obey while it struggled to lunge forward to tear it apart.

He had to hold on. He had to. This _had _become a mission for the guild after all, he realized suddenly, for the guild itself was at stake. So was everything his father had stood for. So was Lily. So was their entire _world_. With one final scream, the Kynmarcher broke.

It spun on its heel and surged forward, barking orders as it withdrew its own greatsword. And the Dremora scattered across the field obeyed. He could hear the cries of astonishment from the soldiers as their enemy was transformed into their ally.

But the strain was increasing, even as the Dremora swept across the field, slashing down their own kind right and left. His vision was swimming, and he could feel something dangerously close to rupturing inside his head. With a gasping breath, he performed the counterspell, and then dropped to his knees. His breath returned in long, ragged pants, and there was something dripping from his nose, filling his mouth with a hot, coppery taste. His hand came away from his face bloody, but a new set of shouts made him quickly look up, his splitting headache forgotten.

There was something glowing in the flames of the Great Gate, and as he watched, dark spines, similar to the ones the Gates had sprung from, began to emerge from the center. And in between them was something else, a hot, sinister glow. "It's the siege engine!" he heard someone wail, and then the sounds of battle were replaced with the sounds of sheer panic. Even he, inexperienced as he was, knew the difference.

"Where is the Hero?" someone shouted, a shout that echoed across the battlefield. He could feel a new fear rising up in him. Where_ was_ she, where was Lily? The minutes were ticking past, and the siege engine was steadily crawling forward.

So this was it. This was how it would end for him. Burned alive by Daedric fire, surrounded by strangers, with an entire city soon to follow. A noise similar to a sob choked from his throat, and he braced himself. He'd led a good life. He'd had a proud family. He'd had dear friends. He'd _learned_ so much. And in the very end, he'd accomplished powerful magic. He only wished he'd seen it all for what it was while it had lasted. But he was a Magician. He was the son of Honditar. And he would _not_ accept his fate willingly.

His dagger, the gift from Honditar, was at his side, and he gripped it suddenly. Yanking it from its sheath, he hurled himself forward, ducking a scamp's fireball and driving it into the creature's deck. Thick, dark blood sprayed out, staining his face and his robes, and for a moment, he froze in shock. He'd never killed anything before—not directly at least—and it vaguely occurred to him that it was the dagger's first taste of blood.

But he forced himself to keep moving. Jerking it free of the creature proved to be a challenge, but he managed to pin it down with his feet and pull the weapon free. He nearly toppled over backward in the snow, but he recovered, and lunged forward to cut down another one.

He was freeing the dagger from the third one when there was a blinding flash of light. The earth shuddered, and he was thrown to the ground as cries of surprise rose up across the field. And then there was a shriek, a grating, a crashing of metal. He looked up from where he was sprawled across the ground to see the siege engine tumbling to the ground, as the Oblivion gates crumbled and disappeared. A giddy bubble of relief was rising up in him, as all around cries of fear turned into shouts of victory. They'd survived. They'd _survived!_ The night around them was the most beautiful he'd ever seen, each gulp of air more precious than the Mages Guild's highest accolades. _Oh Nine Divines,_ _thank you. Thank you._ But Lily, where was Lily?

He saw her then, crawling up from the wreckage, a massive glowing stone held high over her head. The cheering rose even louder, and then he saw a dark shape, hurrying toward her in a loping run, slowed by his heavy armor. She dropped the stone into snow as Martin reached her, and the shouts reached a new level altogether as they locked in a passionate embrace.

The grin died from his face as he lifted her, spinning her around, the soldiers cheering all the while. The dagger dropped from his grip, and even though he was surrounded by an army, he suddenly felt more alone than he'd ever been in his life.

* * *

The sounds of the celebration in Bruma could be heard from Cloud Ruler Temple, but inside the fortress, the mood was far more somber. Ichabod stood silently in the shadows, still wearing his blood-stained robe, watching as the ritual was prepared.

"Are you sure about this?" Martin was asking Lily. He'd changed out of his elaborate armor into simple grey robes, but Lily still wore her armor, with the hood drawn up and a pack on her back. The Daedric symbols on the floor were now joined by an odd array of objects. He recognized the Great Sigil Stone, as well as Volendrung, but there was also what he could only assume was a Great Welkynd Stone, and perhaps the most random of all, and ancient-looking cuirass.

Lily nodded. "I won't fail," she said, and then she kissed him, and Ichabod uncomfortably looked away.

"Remember, the portal will close behind you. Are you sure you have everything you need?" Martin sounded worried, but to Ichabod's surprise, Lily actually laughed.

"Martin, I've checked everything _at least_ three times. I'm ready." She stepped closer to the circle, and Martin sighed.

"All right." He lifted his hands and began to murmur, and then a glowing ball of light appeared in the center. He continued to chant, and then it burst into a flaming portal. He shifted his gaze to Lily. "Our fate is in your hands now." Ichabod couldn't see her face, but she nodded.

"I'll bring back the Amulet of Kings." Something barely perceptible shifted in Martin's face, and Ichabod knew as silent communication was passing between them. Then his face hardened.

"Brace yourself," he warned. She stepped up to the portal, and as she disappeared through it, it flickered, and was gone.


	50. Chapter 47: The Man Behind the Curtain

**A/N: So sorry for the delay, but this chapter did NOT want to get written. At all. But if you enjoyed the "vampire chapters," or parts 1, 2 and 3 of Chapter 21, then you're going to love this one. If not...well, it'll be a bumpy ride. Best of luck!**

**Anyhow, a very happy New Year to you all; hope everyone's 2014 is off to a great start.**

* * *

Chapter 47: The Man Behind the Curtain

I stumbled forward—and tripped over a tree root, sprawling flat on my face. Groaning, I pushed myself up and glanced around at my surroundings. Dark, lush trees, gentle rolling hills in every direction, and a faintly pink-tinged sky. I recognized it instantly—eastern Valenwood. If I was here, then—we must be approaching the border of Elsweyr. It was dangerous here; if we were still in Valenwood, our pursuers couldn't be far behind, but if we were this close to the border… I shivered. Liethl's father had told those stories, of Khajiit tribes to whom Bosmer heads were currency. But where was my mother? Where was Enilroth? Suddenly panicked, I scrambled to my feet—and snapped back to reality as the pain surged through my shoulder.

My old shoulder injury, the one from when Ungolim shot me last year, had flared up again as I'd battled my way up the Great Sigil Tower, and I clutched at it, standing frozen as the cold realization dawned on me that I'd made a fatal error. I'd underestimated Mankar Camoran. He was no Daedric Prince, but he was turning out to be just as deadly—if not more so. While Mehrunes Dagon unleashed his armies in a show of force, it would seem his servant preferred much more subtle methods. Simply setting foot into his realm had allowed him access to my mind, warping and manipulating my memories. For that moment, I had honestly believed it was nine years earlier, that I was fleeing to Cyrodiil with my family. A cold hand painfully gripped my stomach as I realized it would probably only get worse as I drew closer—and if I didn't tread carefully, there was a very good chance I could come completely unhinged.

As if on cue, I heard it—the faintest of whispers. It was unlike the crushing weight of a Daedric Prince, but there it was just the same: a steady, pulsing presence inside my skull. "_So, the cat's paw of the Septims arrives at last._" It was followed by a brush of silken laughter. "_You've trekked through Oblivion carefully, Hero of Kvatch, but you are now in _my _realm. Gaiar Alata, in the old tongue. Did you really think you could take me unawares, here, of all places? We are alike, you and I. We prefer the shadows. Only here, the shadows belong to _me."

He was right, and I'd been caught. Caught like a rat in a trap. "_But maybe you are the Hero of destiny,_" he continued, "_as I hope you are. If so, the Savage Garden will not hold you for long. Lift your eyes to Carac Agaialor, my seat at the pinnacle of my Paradise. I shall await you there_." It was a taunt, but his presence faded, leaving a numbness in its place.

What could I do? The portal had closed behind me, and according to Martin, the only other way out was to remove the anchor—to kill Mankar Camoran. So I squared my shoulders and set out through the garden. But a new kind of fear followed me—and I wasn't sure how to deal with its presence. Never in my ever-lengthening career of death had failure seemed so inevitable—or so devastating. Not even the gripping, all-consuming terror of facing Oblivion's gates could compare with this. It wasn't the prospect of my own demise, though. If I'd died on Mehrunes Dagon's plane or in an ancient ruin or even just out on the road, someone else would have risen up to take my place—one of the Blades, perhaps. But here, it was all or nothing.

If I perished, there'd be no one to take my place. Hunting down another Daedric shrine would be a challenge enough, but finding another Great Welkynd Stone? Allowing another Great Gate to open, putting another city at risk? Not to mention finding more blood of the Aedra would be downright impossible. Regardless, even if these items could all be collected again, by the time they were, Mehrunes Dagon would have probably already annihilated all of Nirn, and so it wouldn't matter anyhow. I could not fail. The blood thundered through my veins, quietly desperate. I must not fail.

As I travelled through the garden, more and more of the landscape seemed eerily familiar. I recognized the pines of the Valus Mountains, the murky forest swamps of Bravil, the craggy landscape of the Nibenay Valley, but I forced myself not to focus on it too long. If I did, I knew, somehow, that it would pull me in—that my mind would be lost to my own memories and madness.

I was so intent on simply placing one foot in front of the next that I didn't notice the Dremora in the path until I was right upon him. I immediately sprang back, drawing my sword and calling frost to my fingertips, but it didn't budge.

"Not so fast, mortal," it intoned in that horrible voice, dark eyes glittering. "I would speak with you." I allowed the frost to fade, but kept my sword leveled directly towards him.

"I don't think so," I growled back through gritted teeth. But he shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Talk or not as you choose. But you will listen."

"Fine." Perhaps showing weakness of any kind was a mistake, but I lowered my sword entirely. "Make it quick."

He didn't speak for a moment, instead carefully regarding me, his gaze travelling from head to foot. But there was no lust in his eyes, merely a keen interest, and I suddenly realized that with all the Gates I'd closed in the past year, all of Mehrunes Dagon's forces probably had an acute awareness of who I was. This was confirmed a moment later when he spoke. "You destroyed the Sigil Tower at Ganonah. My kin say you fought well." He uncrossed his arms. "Unconventionally, perhaps, but well."

"Ganonah?" I raised my eyebrows. "I've never heard of it."

"Our clan sacked your city of Kvatch," he clarified. Then his eyes narrowed. "One of our kinsmen also suffered a great humiliation recently, at the hands of your company. One of your mages not only tore him from our world—no easy feat in itself—but forced him to fight against his own kind." I suddenly recalled Ichabod's boast back at Cloud Ruler Temple, and felt the corners of my mouth tugging upward. Wait until I told him about this. Then I realized the implication of the thought I'd just had—that somewhere inside me, I believed I would make it out.

"—that mortals act with such resolution and honor." The Dremora was still speaking, and I refocused on his words. "It is no dishonor for us to speak."

"That's all very well." I met his gaze, my own just as intent. "But do you have a point with all this?"

"Of course." I could have been imagining it, but he seemed slightly miffed. "You seek Mankar Camoran, do you not? You should know, then, that there is but one way out of the Garden. I guard the path, and it will bring me honor to defeat you. But you shamed my kin at Ganonah. To bring you into my service…that would also bring me honor. So I offer you a choice. Would you confront me in battle? Or offer me service?"

"Let me ask you a question." I carefully took a step toward him, and then another. I was getting tired of this. I had a pounding headache, and this place was already wearing me thin. "If you're so impressed by the way I've fought your kin, what makes you think I would ever be willing to serve you?"

He scoffed. "Your mind follows the simple path, the choice of an animal," he said, disdain leeching from his voice.

"That's not what I said." I took another step closer. "I asked why you would even offer the choice."

"Mankar Camoran is not like Lord Dagon," he said. "And this Garden is no place for mortals. I would imagine that you are quite eager—desperate, even—to escape. Is this not so?"

"Perhaps." I continued inching closer, eying the crevices of his armor. "But I don't see what that has to do with serving you."

"I have a task in mind, a matter too small for my attention, but not too small for one of my servants." So that explained it. He was trying to kill two birds with one stone—gain bragging rights for enslaving the Hero of Kvatch and get his dirty work done. "Complete this task, and I shall reward you with the key to the Forbidden Grotto: the Bands of the Chosen." By this point, I was directly in front of him.

"I choose service." I looked up at him, and I saw his eyes widen slightly. His offer was a long shot—he hadn't been expecting me to actually accept.

"An intriguing choice," he said slowly. "The rabble of the Savage Garden have imprisoned the Xivilai Anaxes. Do me the service of freeing him, and I will reward you with the Bands of the Chosen and passage to the Forbidden Grotto."

I nodded, and sheathed my sword. I was standing so close to him that my knuckles brushed against the front of his cuirass. But I had the Blade of Woe strapped to my waist as well, and even before my sword had even clicked into place, I snatched the dagger free and plunged it into the Dremora's abdomen, neatly sliding it through the chink I'd identified previously.

He gasped out, but he was no match for razor-sharp ebony—or for the Night Mother's enchantments. He fell to his knees, dark blood bubbling out across my gauntlet. But before he died, he managed to look up and meet my gaze, betrayal written across his face. "You…are without honor," he gurgled. And then he slumped to the ground.

I quickly took the Bands of the Chosen from his corpse and approached the low stone door beyond him, which I presumed to be the entrance to the Forbidden Grotto. Just to test, I pressed hard on the door, but glanced back at the Bands when the door didn't budge. They appeared ordinary, just simple leather bracers—albeit carved with Daedric runes. But when I pulled the leather taut and gave it a quick, sharp tap—a trick I'd learned from Vicente—there was a brief flash of orange. Most definitely enchanted, then. Shrugging, I stowed my gauntlets in my pack and worked my fists through the Bands.

Instantly, they seemed to come alive, flaring up with that same orange light as they inexplicably chance their shape, tightening to a vise-like grip around my forearms, searing the flesh. I gasped out in pain and shock as I clawed at them, trying to tear them off. But they were immovable, and even as I struggled, the pain eased slightly to a dull throb.

I gave up, dropping my hands to my sides. Perhaps I could cut them free, but right now, my objective was to get inside. This time, when I pressed against the door, the Bands began to glow, and the door slid aside.

* * *

The Blade of Woe was made of the finest quality ebony, expertly crafted and meticulously maintained. Thanks to the Night Mother's magic, a single prick would weaken body, mind, and spirit. It could fell a Dremora in a single strike. It pared away the finger of Adamus Phillida as easily as though it were fruit. It had even once wounded the great Lucien Lachance. It had disemboweled Mathieu Bellamont, rent his flesh and snapped his bone. But no matter how I sawed away at the Bands of the Chosen, they didn't show even the slightest hint of damage.

I paused in my work, pushing a damp, sweaty strand of hair back from my face. I'd lost track of how long I'd been crouched there fighting with them, and the damp, close heat of the cavern was starting to make my head throb. So I pressed on, even though the Bands' grip was beginning to make my fingers tingle.

The grotto, as I soon discovered, was filled with others, both men and mer. Not one lifted hand or weapon against me, though, instead merely standing and watching me pass with cold, deadened eyes. What were mortals doing here? It had taken months to prepare the ritual that had brought me here; surely they couldn't have come intentionally? Were they dead? That thought suddenly seemed more likely when I caught sight of a Breton girl with wide, familiar eyes, and I shrank away in horror, slogging along faster than before.

The heat was intensifying, and drying out. It was beginning to feel more and more like the caves of Mehrunes Dagon's planes, and this observation was confirmed as I stumbled into a chamber with a thick, lazy river of red-orange magma bubbling from a chasm in the floor. And a red-robed Mythic Dawn agent stepped out into my path.

"The Hero of Kvatch," he said simply. "I have heard of you. Your feats are well known here in the Master's Paradise. I rolled my eyes and reached for my sword, but to my surprise he raised his hands in supplication. "No, please, there's no need for that." His thin lips stretched in a grim smile. "We are all immortal here. Cut me down if you wish, but I will merely rise again." The words were a boast, but their delivery made me pause.

"There's a reason, I assume, why you're standing here talking and not attacking?" I asked.

"Perhaps." He crossed his arms over his chest. "If you're the Hero of Kvatch, and you're here, then I assume…"

"I'm here for what belongs to the Emperor, yes." I nodded. "Your Master and I have an appointment. Now if you'll excuse me, you can step out of my way, or we can do things the hard way." He didn't budge, but even as I drew my sword, his mouth morphed into a grin.

"You're going to kill him," he said. He spoke the words quietly, but with an odd note of glee, and I found myself hesitating. "Can you really do it?" There was no mistaking his eagerness now. "Can you really bring an end to this nightmare? Free the poor fools trapped here?"

"You'll have to forgive me if I'm a little confused, here," I said slowly. Was this a trap of some kind? Payback for murdering the Dremora?

"I can help you," he said, and my eyes narrowed. "You'll need it if you want to make it out of the Grotto."

"Why?" I demanded. "Why would you help me? If you're going to try to kill me, I would prefer we just get it over with now." He sighed.

"Have you ever believed a lie?" he asked suddenly, and I shifted uncomfortably. "I have." He met my gaze steadily. "I was one of Mankar Camoran's chief lieutenants. I helped plan the Emperor's assassination. I opened the Great Gate at Kvatch."

I swallowed hard as I lifted my sword. "Any particular reason why you're telling me this?" I asked through clenched teeth. He blinked, as though surprised by my question.

"Because it was a _lie_," he said. "I was hardly the first to seek after knowledge. And Mankar Camoran had that secret knowledge. He dealt with Mehrunes Dagon as an equal. And we were his Chosen. We saw more clearly than lesser mortals. We would destroy the world and then remake it." He shook his head. "But then Kvatch happened." He lifted his gaze to mine once again.

"Like I said. I was there. They had no chance, but they fought on anyway. Desperately. They seemed to think this…this decadent, mundane world of theirs was worth defending."

I raised my eyebrows. "Is that what you think?" And to my surprise, he rolled his eyes.

"Well, how am I supposed to know?" he asked flatly. "I was slain as soon as they battle was over. Three townsfolk hiding in a cellar attacked me when I entered their house, hunting down survivors. They tore me to pieces." For a moment, his eyes went foggy, as though recalling a distant, painful memory, and I shuddered slightly.

"And then, of course, I found myself here. The Master promised us knowledge, power, and Paradise. What we've found here instead is misery, a never-ending state of wasting away. Here, we are truly lost." His jaw hardened. "The Master lied, you see. I've had plenty of time to ponder my deeds since I arrived here, and I can't help but wonder what else he lied about. But of course, not even a moment of weakness is tolerated by Mankar Camoran. And I've had a lifetime—an eternity—of it. So I was sent here to torture my former comrades who showed similar ingratitude for his gift of _eternal life_." He spat out the words. "So I offer you my help." His eyes shifted to my forearms. "No one wearing the Bands of the Chosen can leave this grotto. The doors will not open, and there is no other way out—but I can remove them. In return, I ask that you do not fail. Kill Mankar Camoran, and end our suffering." He paused. "Do we have a deal?"

Did we? I thought of Kvatch, of the Emperor. _Don't do it_, my inner voice warned._ Don't believe him. _But did I have a choice? My own efforts to remove the Bands had been entirely futile, and I had no doubt that they would present a problem later on. Maybe it was this fact, or maybe that I knew all too well what it was like to be deceived. Maybe because in some way, he was a twisted version of what Martin might have become had he continued on the Daedric path. Maybe because in the flickering light of the flames, his brown eyes looked surprisingly gentle, almost reminding me of Ichabod's. Or maybe because I was just tired, my mind worn thin by Paradise and unwilling to fight anymore. But I found myself nodding, putting my sword away. "We have a deal."

"Excellent," he said briskly. "However, I will need time, and the Dremora overseer will be here any minute to check up on me. You'll need to play along until he leaves, and then we'll find a quiet spot to remove the Bands." He glanced over his shoulder. "Here he comes now." And before I could object, the Mythic Dawn lieutenant was pushing me toward a cage hanging suspended over the lava. "If he sees you, he'll recognize you, like I did. Get in. I won't lower you the whole way down," he hissed urgently when I opened my mouth to protest. "Now!"

I scrambled in, and the cage door clanged shut behind me. And my stomach instantly dropped—as the cage itself did so, the lava below slowly rising up to meet my feet. He'd lied to me, I thought faintly, my head feeling like it was being slowly crushed beneath one of Gogron's massive steel boots. "…prisoner, sent in by Kathuet for questioning," I heard the Altmer saying from above. The heat was suffocating. And the pain was beginning, searing through my armor, the metal plates of my boots heating, my exposed hands about to blister. _I've failed us all. I have failed. _I could feel the scream rising in my throat. _Mercy, Stendarr…_

And then, it was fading. The cage was ascending, and I was gasping for breath. The Altmer stood at the lever, his eyebrows rising in apparent surprise as I stared at him. "What?" he asked. "I told you I wouldn't lower it the whole way."

"So you did," I croaked. He shrugged, and then the gate of the cage sprang open and thumped onto solid ground, albeit on the other side.

"There's no way for me to get across. I'll have to go around." He was already heading for a rocky opening on the other side of the chamber. "I'll meet you at the exit." I nodded, and fled out of the chamber of horrors. If he had come through for me once, surely I could trust him to do so again.

True to his word, he appeared at the door to the exit after only a few minutes of waiting. "All right," he said crisply, gesturing toward my arms. "Let me see what I can do with those." Obliging, I held out my hands. Taking hold of my wrists, he flipped them over, inspecting the Bands from all angles. He made a few indistinct sounds of concentration as he did so, and finally, he glanced up. "Yes, I can get these off. Brace yourself." Against _what_? But before I could form the question, he waved his hand and murmured an incantation. The Bands glowed bright orange, the glow flaring up brighter than ever before, and the cavern echoed with the sound of my screech as a searing pain shot through my forearms—and the Bands seemingly evaporated into thin air.

"_Shhhhh!_" hissed the Altmer as I took a stumbling step back. "They'll hear you," he chided," but I was no longer listening. Instead, I was staring in horror at my arms.

"What did you _do_?" I pushed up the chainmail sleeves of my cuirass, revealing the damage done. The Daedric runes that had been engraved into the Bands had been burned into my flesh.

"Ah, yes. The Bands' physical aspect can be destroyed, but the magic cannot be entirely undone. The magic that allows passage remains, yet it has become part of you. Since it is not added by the Bands, you will be able to pass through. I have given you the same access to the Master's Paradise as he has himself." He smiled, looking quite pleased with himself, but I could only grimace as I looked down at the angry burns crossing my arms.

I winced as I retrieved my gauntlets and tugged them on, but I could afford to think on it no longer. It was time to go. But as I reached out toward the door, the Altmer suddenly grabbed my arm. "Let me go with you," he begged. "I can help you."

I sighed. "All right," I agreed. "But if things get too intense, get yourself out of there, all right?" His laughter surprised me.

"Why, so I can avoid being merely brought back again?" he asked dryly. "I'm already dead. Besides," he added, "if all goes according to plan, it won't matter anymore, regardless." And he pushed open the door to allow the faded light of sunset to spill in.

Carac Agaialor was just up ahead, and the full impact of the Altmer's statement haunted me as we scaled steep sets of white marble stairs. If all went according to plan. I was really about to kill Mankar Camoran—about to unmake his Paradise. But when I caught sight of two familiar, red-robed figures waiting at the top the last flight, my steps slowed. _Oh no…_

"Eldamil, you blood-traitor!" one of them shouted. "You would stoop so low as to assist the lackey of the Septim pretender?" I vaguely recognized him as the one who'd given Baurus the electric burn scars across his torso, but it was the other one who held my attention.

"Surprised to see me, are you?" she snarled, her lips twisting into a bitter smirk. "You have truly have no grasp of the power my father possesses."

"Ruma," I greeted evenly. "You're looking well." For a moment, she actually seemed confused, but then her face once more morphed into a smirk.

"Ah. An attempt at humor," she said disdainfully. "I'm afraid we have no time for your ever-so witty remarks at the moment. My father awaits you inside. Come." She and her brother both turned, as though to escort me inside. But as I stepped past them, there was a sudden crackling sound, and the air was filled with a static energy and the unmistakable smell of charred flesh.

I whipped around to see Raven Camoran engulfed in a storm of blue bolts, his limbs twitching spastically. "_Go!_" howled the Altmer—Eldamil—as Ruma drew her dagger. "I'll hold them off!" I nodded, and then turned and sprinted for the door, but not fast enough to outrun the sense of guilt that had imbedded itself in my chest.

* * *

The structure of Carac Agaialor was distinctly Ayleid, although unlike the many ruins I'd encountered in my time, it was in pristine condition. Unmarred white stone, cold blue light—and a tall figure settled languidly on the throne at the head of the room. Mankar Camoran. I drew in a shaky breath as I approached, noting that my palms had suddenly gone sweaty, and my heart was tapping a nervous rhythm against my ribcage.

"I hear the footsteps of fate," remarked Mehrunes Dagon's champion as I approached. "I have waited a long time for you, Champion of Old Tamriel—the last defender of decadent Tamriel."

"Hardly the last." Oh, I hated that my voice trembled. "An entire province stood against your armies at Bruma."

"Ah yes, your rag-tag band of miscreants. The last gasp of a dying age," he sighed. "But I stand ready to usher in a new age. I am the midwife of the Mythic Dawn, of Nirn Reborn! It grows nearer, with every rift in the firmament. You cannot stop Lord Dagon."

Stop? Stop what? How could I stop anything, when…

"You're doing it again." My voice sounded as though it was coming from beside me, as though I had drifted out of my own body—yet it was enough to pull me back in. I took another step toward Mankar Camoran, and tried to stand tall. "Getting inside my head, twisting things…trying to confuse me. You did it when I first entered your realm, and you're doing it again now." Calling him out on it was emboldening. I took another step forward. "It won't work." And he smiled, an eerie, unsettling smile.

"Oh?" He rose from his throne. "The walls between our worlds are crumbling. Soon, very soon, the lines now blurred will be erased. Nirn and Oblivion rejoined!" He paused. "Starting, I think, with you."

I blinked. Blinked again. The rain had soaked through my hood, plastering it to my head and sending little rivulets of water dripping from the edge, obscuring my vision. Damn Bravil's relentless rain.

I scowled beneath my hood as I splashed through an ankle-deep puddle. I'd wanted to go see my mother today, but the rain—as usual had ruined my plans. My scowl deepened even further as I passed the Mages Guild. What a disaster that had turned out to be. What a disappointment. I hadn't even made it past Apprentice before…

_"No, no, no." _Was that my voice I heard? _"That's not even right. I'm not in the Mages Guild, I was sent to prison before I even…before I…"_

_"You do not remember, then?" _A second voice, smooth and deadly. _"The day you and your mother went to see the Guild Head? She told you they'd be happy to accept you. It was the proudest day of your life, was it not?_

I continued walking, the Lucky Old Lady coming into sight as I rounded the corner.

_"No. See? _That _was the proudest day of my life—the day I killed the traitor beneath the Night Mother's crypt. Right there."_

_"Your paranoia borders on madness. Seeing the Dark Brotherhood outside your very doorstep. How very sad."_

A pause. _"No. I knew them. Antoinetta—"_

I smiled tentatively as I caught sight of a familiar face—a woman who I always saw begging at the corner of our street. She was worn and haggard—like all of Bravil, really—but something about her gave off the impression that she was still quite young. As I dropped a septim into her lap, she faintly returned the smile. It'd taken well over a year for her to do so—she'd initially only regarded me with suspicion.

_"You mean the beggar you pass by each day? Because that is all she is. No more. If you look closely, I think you will see these people you think you hold dear are, in fact, strangers. Perhaps you've spoken to them…once? Twice?"_

There was almost a choking sound. _"Ichabod…"_

_"The young man you were seeing at the end of your time in school? Gone, of course. Little more than a memory, a figment of what might have been."_

_"But I never even _finished _school!"_

I tugged my dripping cloak from my shoulders as I entered the house, propping the door open with my foot so I could attempt to wring some of the water from the sodden garment. It didn't seem to do much good, though, so instead, I let the door thud shut and dropped the cloak in front of the fire, where it landed heavily with a _splat_.

"Elbereth?" I tensed up at the voice. Of course. He'd be home. Today was Tirdas, and he was _always _home early on Tirdas… "Where were you?" His brow creased in a frown as he strode down the stairs.

"Out." He appeared in the kitchen doorway as I began unpacking my basket. "I had errands."

"But you knew I'd be home early." His hands slid around my waist, and I quickly ducked out of his grasp.

"Mhmm." The meat was overly salted. I hated when the butcher did that. I inwardly seethed, even as my husband managed to wedge his way between the wall and the table and grope me. Maybe I'd go back to the butcher tomorrow, and give him a piece of my mind.

"Let's go upstairs," he whispered, and I swatted him aside.

"Stop that. I need to get this put away."

"Don't be like that," he complained, lunging forward. The table shuddered, sending a dish flying to the floor to shatter as I shoved him away with all the force I could muster. And he relented, standing aside.

"Why do you always have to do this?" He was angry now. I could see it, in his blazing eyes, in his flaring nostrils, across his cheekbones.

"Do _what_?" I hissed back, my own temper rising.

"_This!_" He gestured wildly, and I carefully eyed his flailing hands. "You're lucky, you know, that I put up with _bullshit_ I do." One of his hands had latched around my wrist, twisting it painfully. "Most men wouldn't." He roughly released me and stormed out the door, slamming it so the building's timbers shuddered and a plate hanging over the fireplace fell and shattered, adding to the debris littering the floor.

I slumped back against the wall, wearily rubbing my temples. It had been such a mistake, marrying him. I knew that now, although the knowledge had come too late. Perhaps I'd known all along, though, from the moment I'd first met him, when he'd been infatuated with the girl I'd roomed with my first year in the Mages Guild. He'd shown up at the guildhall at all hours of the day and night, following her around, generally making her feel uncomfortable. Things had culminated when he'd actually gone so far as to steal her staff. But some talented young upstart had been passing through, and Kud-Ei had sent him off to retrieve the staff. That'd been the end of it. But then he'd turned his attentions to me.

Yes, Ardaline had warned me. Pretty much the entire guild had. But he could be charming when he wanted, and it hadn't been as though I had other prospects. And I'd left the Mages Guild scarcely two years after joining, only a week after I'd become an Apprentice. And now my days were a constant blur of cooking, cleaning, and keeping him satisfied.

I grimaced as I turned back to the basket—and the real reason I'd gone out this afternoon. The carefully-wrapped glass jars in the bottom contained the ingredients I needed for the potion—the one I brewed a batch of every week. The one I secretly took to prevent pregnancy. I took a shaky breath, rolling up my still-damp sleeves…

And blinked, suddenly finding myself firmly rooted back in reality. "Nice try." I couldn't help smirking up at Mankar Camoran in triumph. "I guess you didn't pick up on it while you were rooting around in my head, but I just had a Daedric spell burned into my arms less than twenty minutes ago. No Bravilian housewife has scars like this." Despite my bold words, I nearly felt as though I were going to pass out. Gods, that—vision, for lack of a better word—had seemed so real. For a moment, I had actually started to believe it.

He chuckled. "Weakness shall be purged from the world when Lord Dagon walks Nirn again. The world shall be remade—much as I have remade your memories."

"I don't think so." I rotated my shoulder, smiling as the tearing, straining pain surged through it. As frustrating and debilitating as it was, it was a reminder of my life, of my experiences—that I was real. I was suddenly reminded of the Glenmoril witch's words—the pain was purifying, purging away the dark thoughts of what could have been. "I think you're afraid. This is too much effort. Why are you trying so hard to unravel a lone agent?" I took several slow, deliberate steps forward, drawing my sword. "Down in your Garden, your servants turn against you—choosing to aid _me_ instead. Your so-called Paradise is coming undone. I think you know I'm going to kill you. And I think you're trying to delay the inevitable."

"You think so?" It was his turn to sound indignant. "My vision _shall _be realized. My long duel with the Septims is over, and I have the mastery! The Emperor is dead. The Amulet of Kings is mine! And the last defender of the last ragged Septim stands before me, in the heart of _my_ power. Let us see who at last has proved the stronger!"

And then the floodgates opened, dark images roaring up from the deepest corners of my mind. The Purification, the last months in Valenwood, the lonely winter spent wandering Cyrodiil as Silencer. The traitor's lair. Finding Lucien's mutilated body. And Oblivion. Oblivion, Oblivion… And perhaps worst of all, the feeling of blood on my hands, the horrifying realization of the quiet satisfaction that came with it, and the guilt of knowing I could never stop, even if I wanted to.

All of it tangible, rising up around, me, every detail as sharp as the moment it'd occurred. I would rip my own eyes from my head if it meant I could stop _seeing_ it. I heard my own scream, as though it were coming from far away. And when the throbbing blackness threatened to swallow me, I welcomed it with open arms.

* * *

"Where am I?" I whispered. "_Who_ am I?" The damp heaviness of the blackness was wrapped around me, sticky threads like a spider's web, and I struggled to claw them aside with trembling fingers.

_"You are preparing for the Dawn." _The voice was distant, but remotely familiar. _"No longer will you stand blind to the truth of Lorkhan's betrayers. Lord Dagon comes to liberate the Occupied Lands—Nirn, his birthright!"_

Hadn't I heard something of that—something long ago? "But _who_?" I mumbled, and I was met with silence.

The darkness stretched on.

Presently, I saw something, something in the distance. It wasn't a light—that much was for certain. But it was a faint _something_, the tiniest ripple of difference in the everlasting expanse of sameness. I began to move toward it, swimming through the darkness as though it were water. And as it drew closer, I began to see. An outline, a shape. A door.

I brushed my fingers across the surface; it seemed solid enough. Wood, roughly hewn. Taking hold of the handle, I eased it open—and stepped into a room flooded with light. And a dark-haired figure hunched over a desk turned around to greet me. "Oh. It's you," he said.

I shut the door and crossed the room to him. "What are you doing here?" I asked. Vicente's eyebrows rose in an expression of faint amusement.

"You're the one who's wandered into my study," he said, and I glanced around at my surroundings. Stone floors, exposed timbers, rows upon rows of books lining the shelves. And the window over the desk was filling the room with a quiet, serene light, like that of a summer morning.

"But Vicente, the sun," I began, pointing to the window, but he interrupted.

"That's not the sun," he said, the corners of his mouth curling up in a smirk. A horrible thought suddenly entered my head.

"Am I dead?" My stomach churned over at the thought. "Oh Vicente, if I'm dead…" He was quiet for a moment, and I miserably braced myself for the worst.

"Your spirit wanders," he said finally, "but your body breathes still. I believe you can still find your way back." I let out a sigh of relief, and he narrowed his eyes curiously. "Would it matter?"

"What?" I blinked, caught off guard. "Of course it would!"

"Why?" His red stare bored into mine, and I hesitated.

"Because…because…" There was a reason. I was struggling to remember. Something I'd had to do, a cause I'd set out to fight for. I'd gone to…

"Martin." The answer came to me as a flash of lightning, quick and all-encompassing. Images once again flooded my mind, rushing out from the spaces where they'd been hidden—and along with them, a vampire's clarity.

"The Camoran Usurper's son wants power over Nirn, so he raised an army of Mehrunes Dagon's servants to take it by force. Mehrunes Dagon may be opportunistic, but he's no mastermind." Saying it like that, it all made sense, everything clicking into place. "I went to his realm to get back the Amulet of Kings, and it was a trap. He used my own memories to try and drive me mad."

The vampire chuckled. "I see our long-ago lessons have not been wasted on you," he said. "One can act in a god's name—but not necessarily with their authority." Then he frowned. "But I will warn you, Lily. The invasion may have been Mankar Camoran's idea—but Mehrunes Dagon _is _involved now. Things have been set in motion that may not be so easily undone."

I nodded solemnly. "I know," I said. "That's why we need the Amulet—why I came here for it." Vicente nodded.

"Then go," he said. "Go and take it."

I reached for the door, but paused for a moment, turning back to the vampire. "I miss you, Vicente. I miss all of you—so very much." And to my surprise, he actually laughed.

"Why ever would you?" he asked. "I am right here—am I not?" And then the room disappeared. The blackness was fading, evaporating away as though it were a fog, and as it thinned, I could make out shapes through it. As I came to, I realized I was lying on the floor, sprawled at the foot of Mankar Camoran's throne, with both of his children standing over me.

"…leave her there?" Ruma was asking. "Should we bring Orthe in—maybe have some prisoners come to deal with the body?"

"Leave it." _His_ voice. "Let me relish in my victory a while longer." Bastard. I strained, trying to force reality to solidify around me.

"She's breathing." Raven's voice was sharp as he quickly observed what was happening. I heard the rasp of a dagger as I lifted my head and staggered to my feet.

"Wait." Mankar Camoran's voice was oddly flat, and I realized his pride in his own power had just become his downfall. Rather than let his daughter quickly strike me down in my weakened state, he was waiting to see what I would do. He wanted to see if he'd broken me.

If there was one thing I knew, it was lies. They'd been such a part of my life for so long. I'd been shaped by them—and I knew how to perfect them. I'd played countless roles on contracts over the years. I'd manipulated Adamus Phillida. I'd kept a cool affect in the face of the traitor. I'd infiltrated the Mythic Dawn. And I'd grown quite adept at lying to myself, as evidenced by my self-discovery today.

The words were the only ones that made sense to say. "When I walk the earth again, the faithful among you shall receive your reward." All the months spent with Martin as he'd translated the text had paid off; at this point, I knew it backwards. "To be set above all other mortals, forever."

Mankar Camoran's eyes had gone wide, and he nervously licked his lips, scarcely daring to hope, it appeared. Ruma's eyes had gone wide too, her dagger disappeared back into the folds of her robe. Raven's jaw was sagging slightly. "As for the rest, the weak shall be winnowed, the timid cast down, the mighty shall tremble at my feet and pray for pardon."

He'd bought it. I could see it as he settled back in his throne, a self-satisfied smile spreading across his face. Thinking of uses for his new puppet, no doubt—but for the moment, he wanted to revel. And I'd give him a revel-worthy performance. "Of bold Oblivion fire who finds you for Lord Dagon forever reborn in blood and fire from the waters of Oblivion." I began to stagger toward him, and he watched, pleased.

"Come slow and bring four keys." My legs trembled as I climbed the stairs to his throne. "In my first arm, a storm." I met his gaze straight on, trying to keep my face as flat and emotionless as possible. "My second, a rush of plagued rain." My sword was still clutched in my grip from before I'd lost consciousness. _Just keep it loose. Don't make it look deliberate._ "The third, all the timber of Anu." I was right upon him now. "The fourth, the very eyes of Padhome."

He was suspicious now. I saw it in the creasing between his eyes, the sagging of his smile. Quoting Mehrunes Dagon's religious text was one thing—merely reciting the ritual that had brought me here was another. "Master akin Master, mother is miasma to Destroyer." And I struck.

It was the same motion I'd used on the Dremora guarding the Grotto. I was fast, but I still saw the knowledge in his face as it happened, the fury as he died. My free hand shot out to snatch the Amulet of Kings, which flared to life as my hand closed around it. The ground was rumbling now, the entire building shaking, massive chunks of the ceiling being jarred loose and tumbling to the ground. I heard the enraged shrieks of Ruma and Raven, heard the crackling of destruction magic—but when I looked down, the glow of the Amulet had enveloped me from head to toe. I could feel the bolts of lightning harmlessly bouncing off me as I fumbled with the clasp, my other hand still tightly wrapped around my sword.

And then I felt myself knocked free. There was a blinding white light surrounding the Amulet's and when it cleared, Cloud Ruler Temple surrounded me once again. A figure stood before me, and for a moment I almost thought the Emperor had come back from the grave, until my vision cleared—and I saw that it was Martin.

Any image of the humble priest was gone. He wore the rich robes as though he was born to—which, I suppose, he was—standing tall and regal, despite the fact that they hung just a little too loosely from his frame. But the concern on his face as he reached out to steady me was that of the man I knew and loved.

"Thank the Nine, you're safe." And I was instantly crushed against his chest. I could have buried my face in his shoulder and stood there for the next year, but he was pulling away all too soon. "So does this mean…?" His voice trailed off as he caught sight of the glittering from my hand.

"Mankar Camoran is dead." My voice was raspy as I lifted the Amulet, dangling it from its chain. My sword had fallen from my other hand, clattering to the floor. "And I brought you the Amulet of Kings." My clumsy fingers gripped the ends as I reached out, resting the blood-red stone against the deep blue velvet of his robe. He drew in a breath, stiffening as I reached around his neck and fumbled with the clasp. "There."

And just like that, the Emperor stood before me. The heir of the Septim line stood wearing the Amulet of Kings handed down from his forefathers, the symbol of the Covenant of divine protection. His thoughts seemed to mirror mine as his eyes had gone wide, his hand reaching up to brush across its glassy surface. It slightly flared to life under his touch, and he slowly exhaled. As he lifted his gaze to mine, his mouth opened as though he were preparing to speak, but Jauffre interjected. It was then that I noticed the crowd of Blades that had gathered.

"Blades," he said, "the Emperor is once again in possession of the Amulet of Kings. We must immediately begin preparing to travel to the Imperial City. The Dragonfires will burn again before the week is up." And the Blades immediately burst into action: calling for maps, packing provisions, asking about travel plans.

I stood aside from the action, watching sadly as Martin conferred with Baurus and Captain Steffan. He'd always struck me as newborn colt struggling to stand and find its legs as he'd grown into this role—the role of Emperor. He'd been tentative, awkward even, unsure of what was expected of him or even how to interact with the Blades. But now he was brisk, efficient. He truly was an Emperor.

I hadn't seen him in any of the visions Mankar Camoran had tried to create in my mind. Everything else in my mind had been touched upon, warped to the point it was unrecognizable. But not him. Not Martin. Whether that was because Mankar Camoran had been too afraid to directly challenge the Septims—even in the form of memory—or for some other reason, I had no idea.

But what had drawn me to Martin had been the fact that he was like _me_. He knew what it was like to face darkness. He knew what it was like to be seduced by it. And he knew what it was like to sacrifice your all, to give of your entire being in an effort to atone for it. Yet here he was, having fully ascended from it, settling into his rightful role as Emperor, whereas I—I was coming to terms with, for the first time in my life, just how essential that darkness was to me. Just how trapped I was.

I sighed, briefly closing my eyes as I wondered whether or not Mankar Camoran really had managed to break me after all.


	51. Chapter 48: The Little Priest

Chapter 48: The Little Priest

_Ichabod_

As Lily disappeared into the portal, Ichabod expected that his anxiety would dull to a slow ache, but instead, it flared up even worse than before. Now that she was gone, she was trapped there. The heir had said the portal was closed. How was she supposed to get out now? Were they even sure she could? What kind of enemies would await her there? What if it was a trap?

His head was throbbing, and as a wave of dizziness rolled over him, he clutched the edge of a nearby table to keep his balance. It occurred to him that he'd been up for the past twenty-four hours, and in those twenty-four hours he'd made an arduous journey—and fought in his first battle. A Blade paused beside him. "You're not looking so well," he remarked.

Ichabod shook his head. "I'm fine," he muttered, but the Blade was insistent.

"You really should lie down," he said, jabbing a metal-clad finger toward a door off to the side. "Head through there, and down to the left. Take any empty bunk, rest as long as you like. Divines know we all need it." He sighed wearily, and Ichabod hesitated, seriously considering taking him up on that offer. But instead he shook his head, his mind made up.

"No." He glanced over at the scorch mark on the floor where the portal had been. "I want to be here when she gets back."

"You may as well go and rest then." The heir's voice startled him as the grey-robed figure made his way over. He looked as exhausted as Ichabod felt, his face matching the color of his robe and the lines of his face exaggerated. "It may be quite a while."

"How long is quite a while?" Ichabod demanded, watching him closely. The heir shrugged.

"A few days, perhaps. Maybe more. Maybe less." The heir tiredly rubbed at his eyes. "I'm not really sure of how the passage of time works there, but I'm almost certain it's not the same as ours."

"Oh?" Despite himself, Ichabod's interest was piqued. "What makes you so certain? I've spoken to some of the sentient daedric creatures I've summoned. None of them have ever indicated that time passes differently."

"But Daedra cannot create," the heir pointed out. "They each have their spheres of power, but they did not create them themselves. This is the first instance I've ever heard of where a mortal has been given direct control over a corner of Oblivion. Mankar Camoran could have done anything he likes with it. Including altering time."

"Why?" Ichabod frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. "Even if he could, think of the kind of power that would take. It'd be draining; it'd only be a waste."

The heir looked at him curiously. "Are you a religious man?" he suddenly asked.

Ichabod frowned, taken aback by the odd question. "I suppose," he said slowly. "I haven't…er, exactly been to the Temple in a while, but…"

"I was a priest of Akatosh before Kvatch," the heir said evenly, and Ichabod was taken aback. A _priest_? He'd seriously been a priest? He fought the urge to roll his eyes, though, as the heir was still speaking. "I understand the power of time. True, it would be no easy feat, but to Mankar Camoran, it may be worth it. If he can keep her there as long as possible—slow her down—the Mythic Dawn have more time to press on in our world."

Ichabod opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted but the sound of a throat being cleared. "Pardon me, sire," the Blade said, "but you need your rest." He shot a pointed look at Ichabod. "_Both_ of you."

"There's really—" the heir began, but the Blade interrupted.

"Or if you like, I can ask Baurus."

It may have been Ichabod's imagination, but the heir paled slightly, and after a slight pause, reluctantly nodded. "Very well," he said. "Tell Baurus he can find me in my chambers." He turned and headed for the door, but then paused, turning back to Ichabod. "You're welcome to stay, friend. Until she returns." And he disappeared through the west doors.

Ichabod wasn't sure if he was more honored by the gesture, or put off by the heir referring to him as "friend." But at that moment, his exhaustion was nearly overwhelming, so he stumbled off in the same direction. He found an empty bunk easily enough, and just managed to shrug out of his bloody robe before collapsing, asleep the moment his head touched the pillow.

When he awoke, the first thing he noticed was that the room was filled with sunlight. The second was that his mage's robe was folded neatly at the foot of the bunk instead of discarded on the floor where he'd left it, and the bloodstains were gone.

"Arcturus cleaned that up for you," a female voice called. He glanced over to see a Blade twisting her hair into a knot behind her head.

"Thank you." Ichabod cleared his throat uncomfortably, sliding from the bunk and slipping the robe around his shoulders. It was still a little damp, but perhaps it would dry if he sat by that massive fireplace in the main hall for a while. "And, ah—would it be possible to find a meal somewhere around here?"

"Don't thank me, thank Arcturus." The Blade jammed a hairpin into her bun and lifted her helmet. "And the kitchen's in the east wing. I'm sure you can scrounge up something." And with that she disappeared through a door at the far end, sending an icy gust of wind blasting in.

Ichabod shivered, and headed off to find the kitchen. The sight of the scorch marks where the portal had disappeared, however, made him pause for a moment, his stomach once again coiling tightly. "Friend!" He winced at the familiar voice, briefly scrunching his eyes shut before turning to face the heir. "Come, sit down." The heir gestured toward the spread of food surrounding him. "There's more than enough here for two." Torn between his dislike for the other man and his hunger, Ichabod hesitated. But his stomach won out, and he trudged over and sank down across from the heir, awkwardly wedging his long legs beneath the table.

"How did you sleep?" the heir asked as Ichabod made himself a plate.

"Well enough." He responded briefly, but his mouth was already filled with eggs and toast.

"Now—forgive me—your name is Ichabod, correct?" The heir had placed his clasped hands on top of the table and was leaning toward him, an expression of genuine interest on his face. "I'm sorry; I usually pride myself on my ability to remember names, but with all that's been going on—"

"No, no." Ichabod waved a hand dismissively, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "No apology needed. And yes. I am Ichabod." And then the heir actually extended a hand across the table.

"Martin," he said, as if by way of introduction. Ichabod stared at the hand as though it were a viper.

"Shouldn't I address you as Emperor?" He forced himself to meet the heir's gaze, and to his surprise, the other man winced slightly.

"No need," he muttered. His gaze quickly returned to his own plate, where he began prodding around a pile of eggs. "You'll have to forgive me. As I've mentioned, I was a priest most of my life. Before all of this." He once again lifted his gaze to Ichabod's. "Being Emperor is…" He hesitated. "Let's just say I find myself in short supply of friends these days."

"Except Lily." The words burst from him like an accusation before he could stop himself, and the heir blinked at him in surprise.

"Yes," he said slowly. They both glanced down at their plates then, and the silence fell heavy around them as they continued eating. A Blade appeared and took their dishes after they'd finished, and then the heir rose and wandered off somewhere. They didn't speak the rest of the day, or the day after. But on the third day, Ichabod was practicing in the main hall when a Blade appeared and tapped him on the shoulder.

"I'm sorry, sir, but we can't have you summoning these dangerous creatures in the Emperor's presence. You're more than welcome to continue outside the fortress of course, but we cannot have it on the Temple grounds." Before Ichabod could open his mouth to apologize or protest or _anything_, another voice—the one he was coming to dread—interrupted.

"It's perfectly all right, Roliand." The heir stepped up beside him. "I don't mind it in the slightest." He may have claimed to be new at the role of Emperor, but the look he cast in Roliand's direction made the dismissal perfectly clear. The Blade nodded and stepped away as the heir turned to Ichabod.

"You're a conjuror. I'd forgotten," he said, his eyes narrowed with interest. "I saw your trick out on the battlefield. Your Dremora leading the others against their own?" Curiosity leeched from his tone as he leaned back against a pillar. "That's impressive."

"Not hardly." Despite himself, Ichabod felt his natural inclination toward modesty kicking in. "It's the same concept as with any other conjured creature: harnessing its capabilities. High-ranking Dremora already have the authority to lead their armies, so it just becomes a matter of power combined with skill. The same as with any other creature." He shrugged, then noticed the oddly intense expression the heir was fixing him with.

"Tell me something," he said slowly. "What's it like studying conjuration? In the Guild, I mean. What do they teach you? _How_ do they teach you?" Ichabod frowned, leaning against the wall facing the heir.

"Well, you learn the bare-bones mechanics of it when you're still at the Chapel," he said slowly. "If you choose to study it further, you learn a few basic spells. Very basic." He grimaced. "I think we summoned…gauntlets, or something. By the end of the year a few of us had moved on to helmets. Nothing that could hurt anybody." He rolled his eyes. "I'm from Chorrol, though," he continued, "and the Guild branch there is devoted to conjuration. My last year at the Chapel, a few of the mages came in and taught an advanced class. But even then, we only summoned mudcrabs. With a mage standing by with a calming spell at the ready, just in case something went wrong."

"Did it?" The heir was leaning forward eagerly, and Ichabod snorted.

"Of course it did. We're talking about a fledgling teenage mages here. One of the students lost control, and her crab attacked a priestess." A snicker rose up in his throat at the memory. "She started screaming and running, and it chased her all the way down the aisle. The mage tried to calm it, but every kid in the room ran after it and started tossing flares at it. Not a single one hit it, of course. Most of them bounced harmlessly off the stone, but one hit the pew the priestess was standing on. Now this particular priestess was perhaps the least graceful person I've ever met, but the second that flare hit the pew, she…she…" Here, it was becoming harder and harder to articulate through his snorts. "She jumped. Clear across to the wall surrounding the stairs. Landed perfectly, too."

He leaned forward. "Whatever they say about mudcrabs, never let anyone tell you they're not smart. As the priestess was running along the wall, instead of heading straight toward her and getting trapped down the stairs, it started along the outside edge and actually climbed up on a crate to get to her. And once it made it up, it actually managed to balance. Made it halfway along the wall by the time a mage put it down."

He was genuinely laughing at this point, and the heir's chuckles joined his own. Strangely enough, it wasn't bothering him—even though almost everything about the man did. It _was_ a funny story. How long had it been since he'd thought about that?

"I suppose there weren't many more mudcrab lessons after that," the heir remarked, smiling.

"No." Ichabod shook his head. "No, we got a very angry lecture from the primate, and were forced to scrub down the entire chapel to get rid of the scorch marks."

The heir's smile seemed to fade slightly, and suddenly Ichabod remembered what he'd said about being a priest at the Chapel of Akatosh—which, of course, was in Kvatch. But he was quickly asking another question before Ichabod had a chance to save face. "What about when you entered the Guild itself?"

Ichabod shifted. "Theory." The word came out more like a groan, and the heir's smile returned. "Class after class of theory. At least three before you can actually begin summoning. And even after that, you still take more theory."

The heir's grin widened. "What do you learn in theory?" he asked.

Ichabod sighed. "The entire Daedric bestiary. Nirn's too. We continue taking classes in which we learn about the realms in a metaphysical sense. There's a workshop in which instructors will summon creatures and discuss it with the students. And of course, the most basic conjuration course is a close examination of the mechanics of a conjuration spell." He shifted his weight from one foot to another, glancing down at the floor. "That's the class I've been teaching this year."

"I'll be." When he looked up, the heir was mimicking his posture, shaking his head. "Times certainly have changed." He glanced up to meet Ichabod's gaze. "Back in my day, conjuration wasn't even a _school_." He snorted. "Those of us who were actually interested in it would rent out a room in an inn and gather there to discuss it amongst ourselves. We learned through trial and error, and more often than not we ended up quite far off topic." He sighed. "It was thought to be too similar to necromancy."

Ichabod nodded. "It's not illegal, and I could if I needed—or wanted—to, but I've never been comfortable with the idea of summoning skeletons or ghosts or anything of that sort."

"Right." The heir nodded. "I stick entirely to animals. The idea of daedra doesn't offend me, but…" He shook his head, sucking in a long breath. "It's not a good idea for me."

Ichabod shrugged. "I find I have a lot more versatility with daedra," he countered. But the heir only smirked.

"Have you ever tried to stop a charging bear?" Suddenly he straightened up, eyes brightening. "I know." He ducked around the pillar and strode out into the open area of the room, where he took a stance. His eyes flickered shut for a moment, and then a brief glow flashed. When it faded, a mudcrab was skittering around his feet, clacking its pincers. "Well?" The heir gave a broad grin. "How about a little competition? Your daedra against my beasts."

Ichabod tried hard not to smile. This wouldn't prove anything. It was both pointless and immature. But still, he didn't want to back down from a challenge. Not from the heir…

With a sigh, he stepped forward and called a scamp. It cackled, flashing its claws, and he silently directed it toward its target. It unleashed a burst of flame, but the mudcrab immediately shrank back, retreating into its shell. As the flames dissipated, its legs shot back out, and it scuttled forward, snapping down on the scamp's leg. It shrieked, but then its claws neatly ripped the crab right out of its shell. The crab made an odd trilling, cracking sound as it disappeared, and Ichabod released the scamp.

The heir was laughing. "Well played!" he exclaimed. "Care to try a little more power?" He smirked, and Ichabod returned the grimace as they both backed away, lifting their hands. This time, Ichabod sent a winged twilight forward to meet a hulking wolf. The wolf hunkered down, its hackles rising as it growled, but the twilight surged forward with a shriek, striking out at the beast. Caught off guard, the wolf sprang forward to meet it, managing to close its jaws around a leg before taking a claw to the face. And then, Ichabod cursed as a shout rang out, the lapse in concentration nearly causing him to lose control.

"_Stop whatever you're doing this instant!_" A red-faced Jauffre stormed in from the east wing, followed by Baurus. The Blade smirked, crossing his arms over his chest as the furious Grandmaster marched up to the heir.

"Is there a problem, Jauffre?" he asked innocently, and the Grandmaster's face turned an even deeper shade of purple.

"Of—of course there's a problem," he sputtered. "You've turned these monsters loose in the Great Hall!" Unfazed, Martin shrugged.

"We're just having a bit of fun," he said calmly. "They're only summoned. Right back to Oblivion with them when we're done."

"They're making a mess," Jauffre said shortly, but Martin only turned to Baurus.

"Only a little one. Besides, I'm sure Baurus will be more than happy to clean it up. After all, I'm sure he wouldn't want anything lingering on his conscience. Nothing along the lines of—" he coughed dramatically, "_ratting out his Emperor_. Or anything of that sort." He gave a bright grin, and Baurus' eyes narrowed, although the corners of his mouth remained upturned.

"That's not the problem here," Jauffre continued to protest, but Martin's face suddenly went so stern that even Ichabod felt himself involuntarily straighten.

"Humor your Emperor, will you, Jauffre?" he said, but the smile was still lurking: in his twitching mouth, in his sparkling eyes. The Grandmaster shook his head, sighing deeply.

"Just—clean it up when you're done. And _please_ try not to bring the whole building to its knees." And with that, he stalked out of the room. A sly look crossed Martin's face, and without warning, his wolf sprang atop one of the nearby tables, sending sheets of parchment flying in every direction and a set of scales crashing heavily to the floor.

One of the winged twilight's legs was dangling useless, but it still had its wings. Ichabod sent it up, raining attacks down on the wolf from above. The air was filled with tufts of fur and the sound of snapping jaws, but finally, the wolf drooped off the side of the table before evaporating back to Oblivion. Ichabod dismissed his own creature, and turned to face the heir.

He was sweating and panting, but still wore that near-maniacal grin. "One more?" he asked, and lifted his hands. Ichabod nodded, and then two clouds of light appeared. Ichabod had decided on a Kynval, unwilling to even run the risk of losing control—not in the Emperor's fortress, in front of the heir himself, unarmored and unarmed as well. But when he saw Martin's creature, he couldn't help but gulp. A monstrous bear stood there, tall as a man and twice as thick.

"Strategy?" the Kynval demanded, but the bear was charging and it had no choice but to rush out to meet it with a roar of its own, swinging an axe into its side. But the bear swiped out, sending the Dremora slamming into one of the pillars so hard the katanas hanging above it quivered. It rolled out of the way and struck again, but then it let out a ragged gasp of pain as the bear's claws punched through a chink in its armor. It drew a dagger and stabbed at the bear's eyes, but as the beast screamed in pain its claws found the Dremora's head, and Ichabod stood staring in shock as it disappeared. His more powerful creatures had _never_ been defeated before.

The bear faded seconds later to reveal Martin across the hall, doubled over with laughter. "And that," he choked out, "is why I stick to animals." He paused, meeting Ichabod's gaze. "No one challenges a bear." And then he was off on another peal of laughter, but he quickly recovered himself and began gathering the scattered sheets of parchment. "These were mine, anyway," he explained. "Notes for the ritual. Useless now, of course." For a moment, his eyes clouded over, but then his smile returned, albeit more strained than before. Ichabod moved in to help pick up the shredded scraps of parchment as Martin called out to Baurus. "Do you know where I can find a broom. Or better yet, a mop?"

* * *

As much as it pained Ichabod to admit it, he soon came to realize he had made a friend. He and Martin would breakfast together in the morning, and then sit in the Great Hall and talk conjuration, all the while secretly watching the spot where the portal had been. Eventually conversation spread out to other topics, and Martin told Ichabod all about life in the Chapel of Akatosh. In return, Ichabod shared stories about growing up in Chorrol, and about the Arcane University—which Martin seemed incredibly fascinated by. But when Ichabod offered to teach him a simple spell to summon a scamp, Martin hesitated.

"That's a very generous offer—although one I'm afraid I must refuse."

Ichabod felt a frown cross his face. "It's the best way to demonstrate exactly how it is we approach the school," he began, but Martin was shaking his head.

"I know, but you have to understand…" He glanced away, fidgeting in his seat, and Ichabod suddenly noticed just how nervous the other man was. "As I've said before, it isn't good for me." He took a deep breath and leaned in closer. "In the days before conjuration was commonly taught, its students were left to their own devices. And without any guidance, allowed to do as we pleased…" He paused again. "It had some bad results." He took a deep breath and met Ichabod's gaze straight on. "I've never been very good at controlling myself. With the…the ritual, and everything else over the past several months, it's been hard enough. Am I making sense?"

He wasn't, and Ichabod felt his face twist in sympathy as he shook his head. "I'm sorry."

Martin sighed and sagged back in his chair, eyes closed. After a moment, he slipped them open again. "There's a report, kept in the Mystic Archives. It was compiled by a mage named Ligan, about twenty-five years ago. It explains everything." He once again met Ichabod's gaze, and Ichabod was startled by the pure sadness he saw there, along with an unreadable emotion. "If you're ever so inclined…" He shrugged. "You have my permission to investigate." He then began wondering out loud what would be served for dinner, and Ichabod couldn't have possibly been more grateful for the change in subject. Whatever secrets Martin was keeping, he wasn't so sure he wanted to know.

* * *

On the afternoon of the day she came back, Martin had begun to grow frantic, and although he tried to keep his cool, Ichabod shared the sentiment. "I must have missed something," Martin muttered as he flipped through his notes. "It's been over a week now, and I wouldn't think…" He began heaping handfuls of ground daedroth teeth into a calcinator.

"Not in those clothes!" one of the Blades barked, but Martin ignored it. A few days before, a few of the Blades had swept him away to his chambers for an afternoon, and when he'd returned, he'd been decked out in the regalia of his station.

As Martin continued muttering to himself, Ichabod suddenly noticed that the fireplace was glowing more brightly than usual. As he slowly began to realize that the glow wasn't coming from the fireplace itself, he turned to say something to Martin, but then the glow flared up, filling room before dissipating. And then there she was.

She was pale, Ichabod noticed, and trembling like the last leaves of autumn in a windstorm. Martin immediately rushed to her, and Ichabod felt that old resentment settle into his stomach. But then she lifted her hands, and he caught sight of the twinkling between them. His breath caught in his throat as he realized that he was looking at the Amulet of Kings. And the moment it was clasped around Martin's neck, a solemn silence fell over the room. It was the crowning of an Emperor, by spirit if not by law. The Covenant was unbroken, and Tamriel—as well as Nirn itself—would survive.

The moment was quickly broken, however, by Jauffre shouting orders, as the entire fortress exploded into a flurry of activity. Apparently an Emperor travelling was no small feat and preparations had to be made, from deciding how to best arrange the guard in the event of an attack to how they were going to feed everyone.

But in the midst of all the buzz, Ichabod noticed Lily hadn't moved. She stood right where she'd emerged from Paradise, eyes glassy and staring through space. Frowning, he made his way to her side, weaving his way through the Blades dashing back and forth. "Are you all right?"

She jumped, turning to face him wearing a startled expression. "Ichabod," she greeted, her lips stretching in a thin smile. It didn't reach her eyes, however, and he was surprised by how _dead_ they looked. "You're still here?" It could have been interpreted as a snide remark, but judging from her vacant expression, it was an honest question. "We never did get to talk before."

"No," he agreed. "There's been a lot happening."

She nodded. "I'll say," she muttered wryly. "They're saying at least _two days_." She grimaced, gesturing to where Martin was conferring with Baurus and that grim-faced captain nearby.

"To get to the City?" He felt his brow rising as she nodded.

"Apparently nearly the entire force has to come along. And we've got to travel slow, and take precautions for Martin's safety, and then there's this whole fanfare once we arrive." She rolled her eyes. "I should just take Martin tonight," she muttered suddenly. "Him and me on Shadowmere. We'd be there by dawn and have the Dragonfires lit. And this whole thing would be over with." She sighed. "Leave the bureaucracy for afterward." A Blade suddenly appeared by her side.

"Lily, we need you over here," she said. "That is, if you're planning to ride with the scouts?"

Lily sighed again, momentarily turning back to Ichabod. "I need to go deal with this," she said, and was that a note of regret in her tone? "We'll talk later, I promise." And then she was swallowed up by a crowd of Blades.

The preparations continued all through the night, and at dawn the next morning, they were riding through the gates. As they continued down the mountain, the snow and ice faded away to bare vegetation, but as they rode along the Red Ring Road, Ichabod noticed the tinge of green returning to the grass and spreading along the trees. Spring was on its way, he realized, although the chill remaining in the air said otherwise.

They made their camp for the night along the shores of Lake Rumare, with the lights of the Imperial City twinkling in the distance. In the morning, they would complete the journey into the City, where the Elder Council was scheduled to convene that afternoon. There, Martin would formally present his claim and the Council whether or not to accept it (they would, Jauffre said), and afterward they would head to the Temple District—a plan Lily heartily disapproved of. Ichabod heard her arguing with Jauffre, and as everyone was settling in, he saw her setting up her tent at the edge of camp, angrily hurling tent stakes in every direction while her red-eyed steed calmly looked on.

As the clustered around the fire at dinner, Martin invited him to share his tent, and he happily agreed. His only other option would have been the cold hard ground, but instead, he was safely tucked in his bedroll as night fell, shielded from the elements and from the dropping temperatures. But despite himself, his heart still sank as he realized the heir's true motivation behind the offer. "It seemed a shame for this fine tent to go to waste," he said cheerfully as he tossed his cloak over his shoulders and slipped out the tent's door, the faint outline of his shadow moving off toward the west edge of camp. Toward Lily's tent.

So Ichabod turned over on his side and thought about time. Five years since he'd met her, since she'd come popping out of the bushes on that long-ago idyllic autumn afternoon. And in the following two months, there'd grown a closeness between them, of a sort he was entirely unfamiliar with. And just when that closeness had expanded, grown into something uncertain and fragile but something more nonetheless…

He sighed, thinking of her throwing around the tent stakes earlier. He'd never encountered anyone with a temper like hers before. Up until that point, he'd hardly encountered anyone with a temper at all. His father had been mild-mannered, his mother had been unyieldingly direct, and all his teachers at the Chapel—and the University, at that point—had just accepted that he was the quiet, cerebral type and left it at that. But then, of course, there'd been the mage who'd taught that fateful mysticism class his second year at the University. He grimaced at the memory. Maybe that was the point at which he'd finally begun to understand. But still, it'd taken two years for him to give up searching, and another two to finally accept that she was gone.

Just in time for her to come crashing back into his life, of course, apparently having learned to reign in her temper—at the same time he developed one. Even now, he cringed at the memory of how he'd lashed out at her. It'd taken another six months for him to gather his courage, and then, it'd only taken a single heartbeat for him to understand. That fragile something hadn't died off in that blazing moment in the Imperial City streets; it'd only been lying dormant, buried beneath layers of confusion and loss. And the moment she'd turned to face him in the Arch-mage's lobby, it'd begun to grow again.

Only too late. He let out a silent groan. Regardless, he was now a part of history, whether he liked it or not. And he was in this adventure alongside her. It wasn't the way he would have preferred it, but what choice did he have? And despite his misgivings, in the past week he and Martin had become friends. He would walk away from this experience with friendship—but nothing more. And that would have to be enough. There was no other option.

He was torn from his thoughts by the tent flap being violently thrown aside, and he sat bolt upright, calling power to his fingertips as he groped for his dagger. But it was only Martin, and his heart rate eased slowly. "Everything all right?" he asked slowly. But in the dim light, he could just make out the hardness in the other man's face, the tightening of his jaw. And judging from the way he stood there completely still, Ichabod got the sense that something was very wrong.

"I don't understand." Martin spoke the words through clenched teeth, and began pacing the length of the tent. "I just don't understand."

"Understand what, exactly?" Ichabod asked slowly, unsure of whether he should press the heir or keep silent. But then Martin turned to him and let out a long, ragged sigh.

"_Her_." He laughed shortly, and Ichabod groaned inwardly. Oh, this should be good. "She knows me, Ichabod. She _knows _me." Well, he'd noticed that, Ichabod thought flatly, but Martin was pacing again. "Everything…everything I've ever done. She knows who I am." Without warning, he spun on Ichabod once again. "And now, suddenly I'm _not good enough_?"

He sank down on his bedroll and buried his head in his hands, and Ichabod felt his curiosity piqued. "What happened, Martin?" he asked quietly. But the heir shifted back and sprawled across his bedroll.

"Apparently I'm a self-righteous priest without an ounce of compassion, and a spoiled brat of an emperor who doesn't know the first thing about ruling." Ichabod could hear the bitter grin in his words. "At least that last part is true." He turned over on his side. "Oh, and also the most arrogant bastard she's ever met. Literally and figuratively, of course."

He flopped back down, and the tent fell silent, Martin lost in his thoughts and Ichabod's mind reeling. She'd really said all that? To Martin, of all people? He frowned. He'd only known the heir a week, but he was fairly certain those comments were unfounded. And that certainly hadn't seemed to be her opinion when he'd seen the two of them together, he thought, bitterness creeping back in.

He was almost certain Martin had fallen asleep when he spoke again. "Tell me something, Ichabod," he said faintly. "There's got to be other bitter, angry, foul-mouthed women in the world, hasn't there? Hundreds more, at least. So why do I let _her_ get to me?" He briefly fell silent again. "Why do I _care_?"

Ichabod lay on his side again, staring at the canvas side of the tent. He knew the answer, of course—the same one that had come to him in that heartbeat just one week ago. And when the silence was only broken by the sound of Martin's sleep-heavy breathing, he whispered the answer. "Because you love her." And the darkness, mercifully, gave no reply.


	52. Chapter 49: Deus Ex Machina

Chapter 49: Deus Ex Machina

Lucien's Black Hand robes had never fit me properly. My shoulders protruded from them too sharply, and tightening the belt caused the fabric to bunch and gather in unflattering ways. But fortified by my armor underneath, they flowed over me smoothly as silk and evenly as midnight. Odd, how outfitting myself in accordance with my role as Listener was dependent on my _other _role—yet in reality, nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, it was exactly the opposite.

We'd arrived in the Imperial City shortly after noon, and it'd been instant pandemonium. People were pouring out into the streets, desperate to catch a glance at the elusive Emperor-to-be. As the crowd edged dangerously close to becoming a mob, Martin had been left in the Tiber Septim Hotel under the watch of Baurus and the others, while rooms had been rented for me, Ichabod, and a few other Blades at an inn a few blocks away. In the meantime, Jauffre and Captain Steffan had made their way to the Imperial Palace to verify the meeting with the Elder Council, and so for the time being, there was nothing we could do but wait.

There was a knock at the door, and it swung inward. "They're ready for us," Caroline said, poking her head in. I attempted a thin smile.

"I'll be right down." She nodded, and then the door quietly shut. I sighed to myself, relieved at the absence of her unnerving presence. The Blade had never been anything but cordial to me, but after learning of her parentage, I couldn't help but feel distinctly uncomfortable around her. Although I hadn't been responsible, knowing I had witnessed both her parents' deaths invoked a sense of guilt I could never manage to shake.

Reluctently, I shrugged out of the Black Hand robes, folding them neatly before setting them at the foot of the bed. The soot-stained Kvatch cuirass I wore underneath had been my standard uniform for months, but now, I was beginning to feel downright naked in it. The Hero of Kvatch. The Savior of Bruma. Both titles had grown far beyond me to the point where I hardly even felt associated with them anymore. I was an unintentional assassin who had no business being involved in the affairs of gods and kings. But in a few hours, it would all be over.

Ichabod and the rest of the Blades were waiting downstairs, and we made our way out the door and along the street. As we approached the square in the middle of the district, however, the crowd only increased in density, and we soon found out way was impossibly blocked. "Excuse me," I heard Caroline saying. "Excuse me, we need through!" But the crowd didn't budge, so I tried to shove my way through instead, but they pushed back so hard I toppled backward, almost knocking over Ichabod in the process. Arcturus shook his head, and drew his sword. "_Make way!_" he bellowed. "_Make way for the Emperor's Blades!_" That seemed to do the trick, as they began moving, an infinite channel parting the way through the crowd. We finally reached the end, though, and when we did, there he was.

He stood there on the steps of the Tiber Septim Hotel, the afternoon sun cloaking him in a mantle of light. He was turning to say something to Cyrus, the sunlight glinting off the Amulet of Kings and making him look every inch the Emperor he was. I hung back, though, watching him sadly. He wore a wide smile, waving to the crowd as the Blades marched him forward down the steps and along the path Jena and Roliand had cleared through the crowd. But I noticed that his smile seemed a stiff, and his shoulders drooped slightly. He was clearly upset, still staggering under the weight of the words that had been said. My words. Saying them had felt as though my still-fragile, newly grown heart was being wrenched from my chest all over again.

I hadn't meant them, of course—how could I?—but it had to be done. Within the hour, he'd be Emperor, and this long quest to save Nirn would be over. And when that happened, I would retreat back to my shadows. He'd rule well, I was sure of it; he was both clever and compassionate enough to tackle what was sure to be the long, complicated process of rebuilding the Oblivion-ravaged Empire. He'd marry some dignitary's daughter and produce lots of little Septims—plenty of heirs, in the event that something like this would happen again. And I…

I sighed as I climbed the stairs to the gates of Green Emperor Way. I would return to Cheydinhal—after travelling to the Sanctuaries to give the Speakers their new orders, of course. Once the citizens of Tamriel got over their relief at not being swallowed by Oblivion, prayers to the Night Mother would begin in earnest, and the Brotherhood would have much work to do. I would devote my attention to my Family, and do my best to forget a certain blue-eyed former priest. Perhaps it had been fate that had brought us together, but now it was pulling us apart.

_He didn't care_. The tiny whisper plagued me as be filed along. _He wanted to make a deal._ But the fact that he wasn't put off by my Dark Brotherhood involvement didn't matter—it was that he _should_ have been. One only had to look at the twisting path his destiny had led him on to know he was meant for great things—and I couldn't allow his reign to be defined by shady deals with darkness.

But we had reached the Palace, and despite myself, my heart had begun to thunder quietly. This was it. We filed through the main doors into a dim stone corridor with high, vaulted ceilings. I'd been in here once before, for that ill-fated meeting with the High Chancellor, but it wasn't any less impressive the second time around. I heard Jauffe speaking to one of the guards, and then the doors to the Elder Council Chamber swung open and we marched through.

The Council Chamber was an enormous circular room, and at the center sat a massive round table, surrounded by dozens of chairs. The first thing I noticed was that not all of them were filled, and I briefly wondered how many dignitaries had been stranded—or killed—by the crisis. But the nobles who were present all rose from their seats, and a tall man in red silk robes stepped forward to meet us.

Ocato. I restrained myself from shooting a glare in his direction. Not only had the man been downright rude when I'd met him, he'd also refused to offer Bruma any aid. But he bowed deeply as Jauffre made the introduction. "Chancellor. Members of the Elder Council." The Grandmaster nodded toward each, respectively. "I present to you Martin Septim, last and only remaining son of Uriel Septim VII, and heir to the Ruby Throne."

"We've been expecting you." The Chancellor nodded. "The Council has already considered the matter of Martin's claim to the throne in detail." He turned to Martin. "So. You're the elusive heir." He began to pace back and forth before him. "I hear they've been keeping you locked away up in Cloud Ruler Temple for quite some time now."

"The Grandmaster of my Blades thought it wisest," Martin replied. "The destructiveness of Mehrunes Dagon knows no bounds—and neither did the cunning of Mankar Camoran."

"Did?" Ocato's eyebrows rose. "He is dead then, I presume?"

Martin's head dipped slightly. "The Savior of Bruma dealt with him." It was so odd to hear how frosty his voice sounded as he referenced me—and odder still to hear that title. I swallowed hard, and reminded myself that it was for the best.

Ocato's expression grew thoughtful. "There was a time the Elder Council kept a very close eye on him," he said. "Many at the time thought our suspicions were unfounded. I can see now that they were not."

They had _known_ that Mankar Camoran was a threat? I bristled, but Ocato had straightened his shoulders and was speaking again. "However." He cleared his throat. "Martin Septim, on behalf of the Elder Council, I accept your claim to the Imperial Throne," he announced, and my throat instantly tightened. So it was done now.

"_Hail to the Emperor! Hail, Martin Septim!_"The sudden shout startled me as it rose up from Council members and Blades alike, and the entire room bowed as one. I felt a twinge of impatience, however, as we rose. Martin was Emperor—but the Dragonfires were still unlit.

Ocato, on the other hand, seemed blissfully unaware of this fact. "We should start arranging the coronation ceremony," he was saying. "It's important to have it done as quickly as possible. However—"

"Chancellor Ocato!" The doors to the chamber were unceremoniously thrown open, slamming into the stone walls. Every head in the room snapped in that direction as a sweaty, panting guard stumbled through. He wasn't a palace guard, though, I noted—he only wore the standard iron armor of the Legion.

"Excuse me, what is the meaning of this interruption?" Ocato began, but the guard cut him off.

"Chancellor Ocato, an Oblivion Gate has opened," he wheezed. "It's inside the City walls."

There was a dead silence in the chamber, and then a low, quiet panic began to swell. My blood froze in my veins as the whispers began. This couldn't be happening. We'd made it to the City, Martin was Emperor, we were supposed to be _safe_…

"Your Highness, what are your orders?" Ocato was asking. "Should we fall back into the Palace?" And Martin's voice rang out, calm and deliberate.

"No. We must get to the Temple of the One immediately. The Blades and I will head out. Keep a contingent of guards here to protect the Council." His grim determination was evident as he charged toward the palace doors, his Blades falling in around him. As my limbs came unstuck, I rushed after them, drawing my sword and calling frost to my fingers.

The Blades in front threw open the doors, and there was a shriek followed by a gurgle as Arcturus ran straight into a Daedric axe. He fell heavily across the palace steps, dropping seconds after his head had rolled down them.

A cry of rage rang out from the Blades, and the Dremora was cut down almost immediately. Jauffre wheeled to the group and roared out a single word. "_Move!_" And we moved. We moved fast.

Charging down the stairs, we took a sharp left into the Green Emperor Way itself. We sprinted along, weaving around the tombs of long-gone emperors and dignitaries, all under that horrible red sky as the all-too familiar smell of sulfur hung in the air. And just as we reached the street leading to the Temple district, a party of daedra fell on us.

Direct combat had never been a strength of mine, but I was suddenly furious, a rage the likes of which had been directed toward Mathieu Bellamont pumping through my veins. I thought of Martin, hunched over that evil book while the corruption ate away at his soul. I thought of Kvatch, of the weeping and the burning, of the looks of utter _ruin_ of the soot-streaked faces there. And I thought of Oblivion. Of the oppressive heat, of the stench of death. Of the bodies, charred with rotting flesh sloughing away, every graphic detail burned into my memory. Of poor souls trapped in the nightmare where they'd died. Of that Kvatch guard—Menien, the one who'd told me how to close the Gate—his last act of defiance before he died, thus paving the way for all of Nirn to be saved. And I attacked.

I hurtled toward the nearest Dremora, slamming into into him hard enough to stagger him as Ayleid alloy cleaved into the crevice above his breastplate. I yanked the blade free, sending a spray of dark blood through the air and jabbing it through a clannfear's side. It squealed, swiping with its claws, but I twisted the sword, and its cries became jagged as it fell, mortally wounded. I ran through a scamp, beheaded another, and hacked another to pieces before spinning to meet a Dremora.

He parried my blow as I swung at him, and the force of it was stopped short. Too late, I realized he overpowered me, and as I tried to catch my balance, he twisted his blade free and struck. For a moment, I was frozen in horror as I watched the massive blade swinging toward me in slow motion. But then, I was suddenly sprawled across the ground—and the Dremora was sprawled across me.

Stars danced before my vision, and my lungs burned as the air rushed back in. As I struggled to understand what just happened, Baurus' face swam above me. "Now we're even," he called as he jerked his blade from the Dremora's back, spattering my face with blood in the process. I thought back to the night of the Emperor's assassination, wriggling my way out from under the Dremora. A wave of dizziness hit me as I staggered to my feet, but I forced myself to shake it off.

"But I pulled you out of the sewers! And killed Raven Camoran!" He turned from finishing off the last scamp.

"I didn't rat you out to Jauffre the night you snuck _him_ out of Cloud Ruler." He jabbed a finger in Martin's direction, and I winced. He was right. But the rest of the party was filing through the gates to the Temple District, and so we rushed after them.

As soon as we passed through, though, I stood still, staring gape-mouthed at the horror before me. A Gate was just ahead, and I could catch a glance of another flickering down a nearby street. And all through the streets, Legion and daedra were tearing each other apart But worst of all were the civilian bodies. I saw one crushed by a warhammer at the bottom of the steps, another trampled by a clannfear across the street in the gutter—and that was only the beginning. These horrors were nothing new. I had spent the past seven months in close, near-constant contact with them. But seeing them inside the City walls, in the shadow of the Temple itself allowed a new kind of terror to creep in.

Now, though, it was time to fight. Lightning crackled between my fingertips as I strode down the steps, swiping at a scamp before hurling bolts at a daedroth. A Dremora rushed at me, but I had learned my lesson. Although my body was still protesting from my impact with the ground—and the other Dremora—I managed to dance out of the way of his blows, finally managing to duck under his arm and pierce through a chink in his armor.

As he fell, I caught sight of Ichabod out of the corner of my eye. He was wielding his staff in one hand, a ball of energy in the other, and judging from the Dremora that had just hacked a scamp in half, he had a summoned creature under his control as well. As the Dremora disappeared in a puff of orange, we made eye contact.

There were no words that passed between us, nor bodily signals of any kind. But we instinctively drew near each other just the same. And as he blasted a fireball at a nearby Dremora, I darted forward to slash my sword across its exposed face. We moved across the square as we had through Vilverin, fighting as one, playing off each other's strengths; only now, after years spent refining said strengths, we were far more effective.

His destruction skills had greatly increased, and as our enemies staggered beneath his attacks, I swooped in to finish them off. I even found myself fighting side-by-side with daedric creatures, monsters he'd pulled from Oblivion to assist us. Martin was nearby; I could catch a glimpse of him every now and then, surrounded by his Blades. We were drawing closer and closer to the Temple doors. We were going to make it, I though grimly, sticking my blade in a clannfear. We just had to last a few minutes longer, and then it all would end. That was when I fell.

This time, I wasn't struck by an enemy blow, or bowled over by a dying Dremora. I hadn't even tripped, or lost my blance from a poorly-timed strike. Instead, it was as though the ground itself had bucked beneath my feet. I was thrown down with a violent shudder, and then I heard the noise.

It was an unholy marriage of the shriek of tearing metal and the rumbling of thunder. Pain splintered through my eardrums, and I defensively brought my hands up to protect them. But the sound continued, and I was struck with the horrible realization that the shifts and vibrations of it were words. It was a voice. A voice meant for no mortal ears, much like that of a Dremora—only far, far worse. In some corner of my mind, I think I already knew what it was as I sat up, straining to see. But still, it took a full three seconds for me to understand what I was seeing. Another five to believe it.

A foot was just visible at the top of my vision. A massive red foot. Connected to a massive red leg, a massive red torso…

And the arms. Four of them. Massive, red arms.

_No._ But it was too late. The sound cut off, only for my ringing ears to register the sound of screams and crashing metal as Mehrunes Dagon swiped out with an axe the size of a city gate, sending several Legion soldiers smashing into the side of a building.

Mehrunes Dagon walked the earth again. His faithful were about to receive their reward, and as for the rest of us…

A hand suddenly clamped down on my arm, and I spun, lifting my sword. But I was only met with a set of wide blue eyes, reflecting a fear I could practically smell. "We're too late!" Martin gasped out the words. "He's here. The barriers are gone, destroyed! Even lighting the Dragonfires cannot repair them!"

The monster in question was turning our way, so I grabbed hold of Martin's arm, yanking him forward into the shadow of the Temple. We plastered ourselves up against its walls behind a pillar, out of the Prince of Destruction's sight. "What do we do?" I demanded. "We have to do _something_, Martin, what do we _do_?!" But he was shaking his head.

"We cant. He's _here!_ Mortal weapons have no power to destroy him." He swallowed hard. "It's over. We've lost." My vision was beginning to swim, and I could practically feel the blood slamming into the walls of my heart as my entire body began to tremble.

"_No_." I shook my head as my breath came in gasps. "_No!_ That's _not good enough_." That cursed amulet was glittering on his chest, reflecting the daedric fire burning around us. The Amulet of Kings. Without warning, my hand shot out of its own accord and snatched hold of it. All that work, everything we'd gone through to get it back. And it was all for nothing. Nirn was about to be swallowed alive. "What good is this, then? Divine gift from Akatosh, _my ass!_ _What good is it?_"

His hand snapped out and locked around my wrist. For a brief moment of clarity I actually thought he was going to strike me, but his gaze was locked on the Amulet. "Divine gift from Akatosh," he repeated, his voice a murmur. Then his eyes shot up to mine. "Divine gift from Akatosh." Something had shifted in his face; his eyes had gone hard. "It contains his power." And he grabbed hold of my hand. "Come with me." And he turned and broke into a run, pulling me along after him.

"What? Where are we going? I don't understand!" But my protests fell on deaf ears. The hand that wasn't wrapped around mine was clutching the hems of his robes, holding them up as he wove though bodies and debris with surprising agility. We were making our way around the edge of the Temple, and just as the towering figure of Mehrunes Dagon came into view again, we had reached the Temple doors. With a mighty tug, Martin yanked one open, and we slipped through behind the Daedra's back.

Despite all the time I'd spent in the Imperial City over the years, this was the first time I'd been inside the Temple of the One. Instead of various alters and pews and stained-glass windows, however, it consisted of a single, spacious chamber with a hollow surrounded by a low, wrought-iron fence—where the Dragonfires had burned, presumably. The walls curved up into a dome with an opening at the very top, allowing the temple to be bathed in the eerie red light of Oblivion. As I took several paces further in, I turned to Martin. "Well?" I panted, struggling to catch my breath. "What now?"

That fierce expression he'd worn only minutes ago had faded, and perhaps it was a trick of the sanguine light, but his face looked almost ashy. "The Amulet of Kings was never intended to be used as a weapon," he said slowly, nervously licking his lips. He wasn't meeting my eyes. "But the power…it contains Akatosh's divine power." His hand had unconsciously floated up to it, and it illuminated beneath his touch. "If that power could be released…"

"Martin, what are you saying?" My voice was barely audible over the noise of the battle outside. He finally met my gaze, and his façade fell away. I could see the broken, tortured man beneath; the man haunted by suffering and death that had followed him throughout his life, no matter where he'd run. I saw a man crumbling beneath its burden—and a man who was desperate.

"I'm sorry." And suddenly he was right in front of me, his mouth pressed against mine. He broke away just as swiftly, and took several steps back, toward the hollow in the middle.

"Martin!" My voice rose. "Martin, what are you _doing_?" He was staring at the floor tiles, but then he tilted his gaze up to mine, and that desperate light once again glinted in his eyes.

"I'm…going to break it," he hoarsely managed, and my breath caught in my throat.

"What's that going to do? Martin?" I took several steps toward him, but he held up a hand, backing away.

"Don't. Stay back." He had once again averted his eyes. "The power—well, it's energy. Lots of energy under a great deal of pressure." He didn't need to say any more. I had enough knowledge of magicka to understand what would happen.

"Martin, _no_!" My cheeks were suddenly wet. "Martin, don't, I'll do it. Let me, Martin. Let me."

But he shook his head. "No, I have to do it," he murmured. "Akatosh's power…it also flows through my veins. Blood of the Septims. Dragonblood." He feigned a weak smile. "It has to be me." He inhaled deeply. "Stand back." And I stood transfixed with horror as he headed toward the fence.

"Martin, I'm sorry," I gasped out. "I'm so sorry for everything." For not delivering the Amulet. For breaking his heart. For failing to get him to the Temple in time, for failing to protect him. But the words stuck in my throat. He hesitated, turning back to me.

"I loved you," he said suddenly. "I never loved anyone the way I loved you." He shook his head. "But I do what I must do. The shape of the future, the fate of the Empire…" He pressed his lips together. "These things now belong to you."

He turned, then, and hopped over the fence. Instinctively, I stepped back, pressing myself against the wall, despite the tears now streaming down my face. He glanced back over at me, his lips parting as if about to say something, but then there was a sound like thunder, and several things happened, all in a blur.

First, the dome of the Temple exploded inward, chunks of stone raining down and smashing apart on the floor. Second, a horned face appeared over the remaining walls, four massive hands the size of horses reaching down over them. And third, there was a sound akin to the breaking of glass.

I threw up my arms to protect my face as a blinding flash of light exploded from the center of the Temple. I could hear it again: the shrieking thunder of Mehrunes Dagon's voice. But there was another sound too, a cry shriller than the hum of a Sigil, fit to rival any music of Oblivion. And I cracked open my eyes to an impossible sight.

A dragon stood before me, towering even with Mehrunes Dagon, taller than the Temple had been. A dragon made of pure light. But its wings had the force of a hurricane as it flexed them, knocking me to the ground as it soared upward.

It circled just overhead, and with another shrieking cry, a blossom of light exploded from its mouth and washed over the Prince. And my scream joined Mehrunes Dagon's as my eardrums threatened to rupture.

The dragon landed again, and doused the Daedra with another blast of its voice. He responded by swinging his hammer into it, and the creature continued to shout. I gasped out as he suddenly pierced the dragon with his spear. He was going to win, I thought faintly, not even the power of Akatosh could help us…could…

And then, the dragon's head shot forward, its jaws locking around Mehrunes Dagon's neck. He let out another roar, muffled, yet still earth-shattering. The dragon's neck twisted as the Prince struggled to break free, but suddenly there was an explosion of thick, sanguine clouds. And when the cleared, the Prince of Destruction had vanished from the face of Nirn.

I cowered there on the floor of the Temple, half-blind, half-deaf, on the faintest edge of consciousness. The Dragon was breathing heavily, its sides shuddering. Despite its victory, Meurunes Dagon's attacks had done serious damage. And then, its neck suddenly craned downward, and it looked directly at me.

Maybe it could have killed me, too, right there where I lay, I thought dizzily. I wouldn't have cared. But there was no tension in the beast, only an unidentifiable _something_, something familiar._ Martin?_ I spoke the word aloud in my head, although I don't think it made it past my lips. But if it was him, it couldn't—or wouldn't—respond.

Without warning, it suddenly drew itself up once again, any hint of familiarity gone. Tilting its head skyward, it let out a scream. And although my voice was gone, my spirit screamed along with it. But it was no scream of victory; instead, it was one of anger, of horror, of grief. Nothing could be the same after what happened here today. Although Nirn would last, it would be in a warped, crippled incarnation, absolutely hopeless and damaged beyond repair. As the dragon's scream faded and its light crumbled, so did I. And when the smoke finally cleared, the Legion would break into the the ruins of the Temple to find a dragon of stone—and the broken shell of a ruined Hero.


	53. Chapter 50: Water's Lament

**A/N: Just a quick warning, this chapter is very dark. It contains some potentially upsetting content, so read at your own risk.**

**I'd like to start this chapter out on a lighter note, though; has anyone seen the video about the ESO voice actors? I think I sat there laughing for a good ten solid minutes after I finished watching it. Molag Bal shall forevermore be known as Little Mo. Or maybe that's his rap name? Lil' Mo. Hmm. Tamriel better get ready for a whole new genre of music. Actually, that wasn't that funny, so let's get on with this chapter...**

* * *

Chapter 50: Water's Lament

_Ichabod_

"I think the most surprising fact of it all, though, is that he knew me. Not my name, of course, and certainly not by my face. But he knew me by the fact that I'd been able to summon him. And that is where I see the problem. Why does the Legion deemphasize magic? And furthermore, why do we, as the Mages Guild, deemphasize combat training? We have fewer battlemages come through the University each year than mages of any other school. Even destruction experts hardly know the first thing about how to handle a sword."

Ichabod leaned up against the podium, staring out over the sea of faces seated in the courtyard below him. He hadn't wanted to give this talk, but Bothiel had pleaded, and eventually he'd grown too tired to continue saying no. However, he couldn't help but feel the slightest satisfaction as he regarded the expressions of confusion and impatience. They all wanted to hear about the battle, but was there to tell them? Of the blood, the flames? The fear? The hours spent afterward helping to cart away the bodies? The horror of lifting a mutilated corpse, only to discover it was still breathing? Of the tangible nightmares that haunted him from moment he closed his eyes until he awoke in the night, panting and dripping with sweat, half-afraid that his cries had awoken his fellow mages? Of the long, dark hours spent pacing the Mystic Archives, because anything was better than going back to sleep and facing the dreams again?

So instead, he launched into an in-depth analysis of the merits of each school, and of the combat-magic dichotomy that prevented young mages—and Legionnaires—from fully developing their talents. Half an hour later, the crowd had grown bored and restless, and he himself was feeling eager to wrap things up. "And so in light of recent events, I urge each and every one of you to consider these issues from both a theoretical and a pragmatic standpoint. Thank you for your time." He moved to make a quick exit, but shouts rose up from the crowd.

"But when are you going to talk about the invasion?"

"What was it like, in the Temple, at the end?"

"Did Martin really call down the power of Akatosh to smite Dagon?"

"Yes, what about Martin? What happened to him?"

"Was that fiery dragon really Akatosh?"

Ichabod ignored them, quickly making his way along the edge of the crowd and toward the stairs to the upper courtyard. He didn't know the answers to their questions. All he knew was the official word—that Martin had perished defending Nirn against Mehrunes Dagon. But he also knew something that hadn't been part of the official word—that there had been no body retrieved from the Temple of the One. But he wasn't about to share that with the crowd of vultures that had gathered here today.

The Crisis had ended weeks ago, and ever since then, the Arboretum had been the only place he'd been able to think straight, despite the damage and the debris from the Gates. And although, as he'd admitted to Martin, he was hardly a religious man, as he'd paused by the Arboretum's statue of Akatosh last week, he'd whispered a few scant words of a prayer. _Watch over him._ It wasn't a real prayer, of course; at least not one his mother would ever approve of. But it was something, and for the time being, that would just have to be enough.

He was almost to the gates when he heard a familiar voice calling after him. "Ichabod! Wait! Just where do you think you're going?" With a groan, he stopped in his tracks and slowly turned to face the Arch-mage.

"Arch-mage Traven," he greeted wearily. But the other man was in no mood for pleasantries.

"What in Oblivion was that back there?" he demanded. "Conspiracy theories and anarchy? I've had three different mages just now ask me if you've lost your mind!"

Normally, Ichabod would be a stuttering mess, apologizing for his behavior. His entire life had been a concerted effort to avoid stepping on the toes of authority figures. But he thought of Martin laughing in Jauffre's face as his wolf tore apart the Great Hall, and instead shook his head.

"No, sir," he stated calmly. "Never been better." The older man frowned, but his dark eyes softened somewhat.

"I can only imagine what you must be going through. If you need some time…"

"No." Ichabod abruptly cut him off. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary at all. I am perfectly willing and able to perform whatever duties the Guild needs of me."

"Good." Traven's frown remained, but his posture relaxed. "Good, because there is a task I would have you complete for me."

"Of course." Ichabod nodded.

"Irlav Jarol has disappeared." The Arch-mage sighed. "There's been," he cleared his throat, "some division within the Council lately. This happens, of course, but things have gotten…out of hand."

"And you suspect Irlav Jarol has met with foul play because of it?" Ichabod frowned.

"No, no, nothing like that!" Traven gave a small chuckle. "The Council has its disagreements, of course, but we're not murderers. No, rather, he disappeared with a very powerful artifact, one of great importance to the Guild. But we've spoken with his research assistants and looked over some notes he left behind, and we believe he may be headed for an abandoned fort down near Leyawiin." He paused. "I don't suppose I have to tell you; those kinds of places are always crawling with bandits. I need someone who can handle himself in a fight."

Ichabod's eyebrows rose. "And that's where I come in?" The Arch-mage nodded.

"That, and the fact that Irlav will be more likely to…listen to reason when the messenger is someone he trusts. He spoke very highly of you after your fieldwork with him several years ago."

Ichabod sighed. "I see." He nodded. "I'll be more than happy to retrieve this artifact."

Traven gave a broad smile and clapped him on the back. "Excellent!" he said briskly. "You're a good man Ichabod. I knew I could count on you." And he turned back toward his tower. Ichabod watched him go with a sigh. Now he had a trip to prepare for. The Arboretum would have to wait until another day.

* * *

He had planned out his travel schedule and was placing his folded cloak in his pack when the knock came at the door. Striding over to it, he pulled it opened to reveal a mage apprentice. "Can I help you?"

She nodded. "Bothiel sent me." At those words, Ichabod shrank back in horror. The Wizard was probably downright furious over the joke of a lecture he'd just given. "She said to tell you there's a young woman waiting for you in the lobby."

Ichabod's blood froze. "Thank you, Apprentice." And he bolted straight past her, out of the room and down the stairs. Lily, he thought desperately, it had to be Lily. He slowed his pace as he reached the courtyard, although he kept it brisk. It wouldn't do for a newly-appointed Warlock to be seen sprinting across campus, but his heart still thundered in anticipation.

He hadn't seen or heard from her since the day the crisis ended. He had, however, seen the bloody figure in the Kvatch cuirass being carried out of the Temple. But as for what had happened to her afterward, no one seemed to be able to tell him. She wasn't dead though—that much was for certain. One of the Legion captains he'd spoken to had said she'd definitely been alive when his men had pulled her out. But somehow, in the chaos that had followed, she'd vanished.

He threw open the door to the tower, and immediately stopped short in disappointment. His visitor was most definitely not Lily. This girl was a Breton, pale-skinned and small in stature, wearing the same dark, tight-fitting armor he'd seen on those mysterious mercenaries in Bruma. Jet-black hair hung in a braid over her shoulder, and she had heavy makeup caked around her eyes. "You're Ichabod?" she asked warily, staring up at him suspiciously.

He frowned. "I am. And you are?" She didn't reply, but her expression softened as she glanced over to Bothiel, and then took a few quick steps closer.

"You knew her. Before, I mean. You were her friend."

Ichabod's frown deepened. "Who exactly are we talking about here?" he asked, but he had a feeling he already knew.

"The," the girl cleared her throat, "Champion of Cyrodiil. Or whatever they're calling her these days. Hero of Kvatch. Savior of Bruma."

Ichabod felt his breath catch in his throat. A thousand responses popped into his head, but his words were failing him, and he simply nodded.

"Good." The girl's hard expression was back. "I need you to come with me." Well, that certainly wasn't ominous at all.

"Where to?" he asked. "More importantly, _why_?"

The girl's expression wavered, and she leaned in close. "I need your help," she whispered. "Or actually, _she_ does." Ichabod's eyes widened, leaning down to meet the girl halfway.

"Do you know where she is?" he hissed. The girl nodded.

"She won't listen to me. It's…it's important, and I thought maybe if you talked to her, she'd…" She shrugged. "Come around. Or whatever." A split-second, and his mind was made up.

"All right." He nodded. "Lead the way."

* * *

Once they were outside University property, on the bridge to the City, he finally asked his real question. "Where is she?"

"Where do you think?" The girl rolled her eyes. "The Temple of the One." Although there was no one around to hear, her voice dropped to a half-whisper. "She's been there for _weeks_," she muttered. "All the priests…they want her out of there. Pilgrims are coming from all over the Empire, but they can't let them inside, because…" She sucked in a breath. "She'll just make them uncomfortable. She makes the priests uncomfortable. Even _I'm _uncomfortable." She rolled her eyes again.

"I'm Marisa, by the way," she said as they reached the Arboretum. "Marisa Dupre. Sorry for dragging you out here, but I didn't know who else to go to."

"Pleasure to meet you," he said absently, but his mind was reeling with questions. What sort of state could she be in that the priests would be so nervous? Why was this complete stranger tracking _him_ down over it? And whatever it was, what did they think he'd possibly be able to do about it?

They reached the Temple District, and he drew in a sharp breath, surprised by the overwhelming pang of emotion that struck him. The bodies had been removed, the debris cleared and the blood scrubbed away, but the district was still the picture of utter ruin. The streets were torn apart, the buildings were liberally streaked with soot, and worst of all, the Temple walls ended in a ragged edge, inescapable evidence of Mehrunes Dagon smashing in the Temple dome.

He faltered, and Marisa paused a few steps ahead of him. "Are you all right?" A single eyebrow rose, and he shook his head, marching past her.

"I'm fine. Let's get this over with."

They had to fight their way through a crowd to get to the Temple doors, where a flustered-looking pair of Legion guards was trying to shoo the pilgrims away. When they saw Marisa, however, they nodded and waved her through. And although an angry roar rose up form the crowd, they slipped inside.

He was surprised by how open it felt—although it was to be expected, considering the fact that the roof was gone—but it was nothing compared to the shock at seeing the dragon. He took a few steps toward it, staring up in awe as he took in the sheer size and the incredible detail. If not for the fact that its surface was smooth white stone, it could have easily flown out of the Temple and away. He shuddered at that thought—the memory of seeing it glow with flame, circling overhead as it attacked the Daedric Prince of Destruction. It had been _alive_—and now it wasn't. It wasn't dead, per se—although that would have been an easier thought to process. It was simply no longer living.

Before he could dwell too much on it, however, a hooded priest hurried over to them. The sight of his grey robes stirred up an unfamiliar ache in Ichabod, but the priest immediately began speaking with Marisa. "Nothing's changed," he murmured. "I am sorry about before, by the way. J'mhad takes a great deal of pride in what he does. He is very meticulous, you understand."

Marisa nodded. "I do. I'm doing my best here."

"I know." The priest let out a heavy sigh. "She saved my life once, you know. Back when I was held prisoner by the Mythic Dawn. That is why I have allowed this to go on as long as it has. But the sooner you get her out of here, the better. For all of us."

Marisa's eyes briefly flickered shut. "I'm trying," she said wearily. "I even brought in reinforcements." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at Ichabod. The priest eyed him warily, then nodded.

"Good. Go on ahead. But be quick about it, Marisa. For all our sakes." The priest then drifted away, and Marisa gestured for Ichabod to follow her, leading the way around the outer edge of the temple. They circled the dragon, and then as Marisa stopped short, Ichabod's breath caught in his throat. There she was.

She sat cross-legged on the floor, hunched beneath those heavy black robes of hers. Her head was bowed, and she didn't bother to look up as they approached. But what struck Ichabod the most was the heavy scent of stale wine—and the empty bottles tipped over on the floor beside her. She'd clearly been drinking—and drinking _a lot_.

"Listener?" Marisa moved forward, crouching on the floor beside her. Lily's head briefly lifted, then drooped back down again.

"Dammit, Marisa." He was surprised by how harsh her voice sounded. But it wasn't just the low, grating quality—it was the venom in it. "I told you. Leave me be."

"And I told you," the girl responded coolly, "I'm not leaving until you come with me."

"Then sit down and enjoy the wait," Lily spat. Ichabod could feel his eyes widening in horror. Never had he witnessed her behave like this. He may as well have been being introduced to a total stranger.

"Listener," Marisa groaned, and Ichabod felt his curiosity piqued at the odd form of address. "I just need to talk to you, okay? Come home with me, back to Cheydinhal. Being here isn't doing you or anyone else any good."

"Cheydinhal hasn't been home in years," Lily muttered, leaning forward to rest her forehead on one of the dragon's massive hind claws. "And I'm not leaving. Whatever you have to say, say it now and get out."

"The priests are going to kick you out into the streets." Marisa's voice rose. She was getting angry, Ichabod noted; her cheeks were flushed and her jaw was stiff. "There are people who want to visit, to see the dragon for themselves. You don't own the temple."

"So let them come in and see it." Lily straightened up, gesturing broadly with her hands. "I'm not stopping them. Let them gawk all they want. They can even gawk at me while they're at it. Two for the price of one." She bitterly spat out the last phrase, and her gaze dropped back down into her lap.

Marisa gave a long sigh, and a silence fell between them. "I'm not the only one who thinks you should leave," she said finally. "I brought an old friend of yours." She beckoned for Ichabod to move closer, and as he did so, Lily twisted around to face him.

"Who is that?" she asked sharply. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she squinted at him. "Ichabod?"

"It's me, Lily," he said quickly, but he found himself frowning in confusion, glancing over to Marisa as if to ask for an explanation.

"We managed to heal her ears," the girl said. "Me and Arquen. Not that she made it too easy for us," she added, shooting a glare in Lily's direction. "But her eyes…that's a different story. It's too complex for either me or Arquen, but either way she won't let us get near them."

"I'm sitting right here, Marisa," Lily cut in icily. "And as you've so helpfully pointed out, I can hear perfectly well. Don't talk about people as if they aren't there. It's rude."

"Well, _excuse me_," Marisa mumbled. She glared up at Ichabod, and jerked her head toward Lily. He hesitantly crouched down beside Marisa, unsure of what he was supposed to be saying or doing. Luckily, Lily spoke first.

"What are you doing here, Ichabod?" she asked flatly. It was a good question; he was asking himself the same thing. The words threatened to stick in his throat, but he managed a reply.

"Marisa came and found me," he said slowly. Gods, she looked terrible. She was sallow, face gaunter than ever, with dark circles surrounding her eyes. Her hair hung thick and greasy over her shoulders, and it looked as though she hadn't combed it in weeks. The worst part, however, was that dead, expressionless look on her face. "She says you've been here since the…"

He didn't know how to finish the sentence, but she turned away, running a hand over the dragon's claw.

"I can't leave him," she said sadly. There was an exasperated sigh from Marisa.

"That's not Martin," she snapped. And to Ichabod's surprise, Lily's head snapped in her direction, a hint of fury glowering in her eyes.

"I know that," she hissed. "He's _gone_." Her voice broke on the last word. "But this is the closest thing to him I have, and I said I'd protect him. I _promised_." She turned away again. "So I'll protect him now."

"Listener…" Marisa's voice, too, had gone sad. "There really are much more important things you should be worrying about right now. Please, just come with me, and I'll explain everything."

"For the last time, Marisa." The edge was back in Lily's voice. "I'm _not leaving_. If you have something to say, say it or get out."

"_Godsdammit_." Marisa's face had turned bright scarlet. Ichabod didn't understand why she was so furious, or why she was sending him such a pointed glare. "Listener," she hissed through gritted teeth, "you're _pregnant_."

The words hit Ichabod like a fist to the gut. His blood rang in his ears as he stared at her in horror. Lily—_his_ Lily—was actually carrying Martin Septim's child? She was going to be a mother? His initial shock faded slightly, however, when he noticed Lily didn't seem to be reacting at all.

Slowly, she shook her head. "I can't be," she said quietly.

"That was what I told myself at first." Marisa's tone, surprisingly, was downright gentle. "I thought it wouldn't happen to me, but it _did_." Wait, so now _she_ had a child? His attention briefly shifted to her. Beneath all her heavy makeup, she was clearly very young. He was horribly confused. But Lily was adamantly shaking her head now.

"No," she clarified, "I mean I can't have children." It was Marisa's turn to look confused.

"I did a test," she said slowly. "It's very precise. I don't know why you think you wouldn't but—"

"Porphyric Hemophilia," Lily snapped, cutting her off. "Is that enough of an explanation for you?"

"The vampire disease?" Marisa's brow was furrowed. "Listener, the only way that could affect fertility would be if it ran its full course."

"Well, it did." Lily muttered into her knees, which she'd drawn up against her chest.

"But you're…" Marisa's voice trailed off, even as Ichabod sucked a breath in.

"There's a cure?" The words leapt from Ichabod's mouth before he could stop them. "Lily, you were actually a _vampire_? A full vampire? And now you're _cured_?" She lifted her head and nodded as she met his gaze. Suddenly, so much made sense: her aged appearance, her eerie orange eyes, and possibly even the reason why she'd disappeared all those years ago. But imagining her stalking through the night, red-eyed and fanged, falling upon innocent victims and feeding… A shudder ran down his spine

"It's not common knowledge. But yes. It exists." Her voice was a whisper. "And it comes with a heavy price." Beside him, Marisa shifted uncomfortably.

"But Listener," she said slowly, "If you're cured, then there'd be no reason everything _wouldn't _be back in working order." She shrugged. "Like I said. You're definitely pregnant." There was a long, drawn out pause. "Listener?"

And Ichabod's eyes nearly popped out of his head at the colorful explosion of curses that burst from Lily's mouth. Suddenly, he had a pretty good idea what she'd said to Martin. Her breath was coming in sharp gasps, and Marisa scrambled over to her.

"It'll be okay, Listener," the younger girl soothed. "Look I…I know someone." She paused. "Someone who can take care of things like this." For a moment, Ichabod didn't understand what she was talking about, but as the realization sunk in, he felt his eyes widen. _Oh…_

"She charges a real hefty fee, though," Marisa was saying. "I couldn't afford her, but I knew girls who could. It won't be pretty, but you'll get results."

Ichabod sagged back on his heels, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. This was all too much to take in at once. Plus, he wasn't sure how he felt about this.

But Lily was slowly nodding. She awkwardly lurched to her feet, and probably would have fallen if Marisa hadn't grabbed her arm to steady her. "Take me to her," she muttered.

* * *

They made their way out of the temple, with both Ichabod and Marisa on either side of Lily, supporting her. Ichabod wasn't sure if her legs were just stiff from being unused, or if it was due to the amount of alcohol in her system. He couldn't help but cringe a little at the thought of the latter. As they made their way toward the crowd, however, he was half-afraid they would recognize either Lily or himself and turn into a mob. But with their faces concealed by hoods, they glided straight through.

It was sunset, and by the time they emerged on the south side of the tunnel, night had fallen. Ichabod glanced around in curiosity as they hurried along past the lighthouse and crossed a long bridge to the pier. He'd never been to the Waterfront before, but despite the rumors, he didn't think it looked all that dangerous. However, his opinion changed once they climbed a steep set of stairs and descended to the other side, behind the long wall of white buildings.

Here, it was dirty, dilapidated, and more than a touch seedy. The run-down buildings matched the few ragged passers-by they happened upon, and he could hear raucous peals of drunken laughter echoing from somewhere further down the street. Marisa led them to a broad break in the rows of shacks: not quite an alleyway, but not a crossroads either. Before them, the pale sandy beach gently sloped away to meet the infinite expanse of the dark, glassy water.

"All right," Marisa said, turning to face them as they paused beside one of the shacks. "I'm going to leave the two of you right here while I go find her. This place can be a little rough." There was a faint sound of breaking glass from down the street, and she grimaced. Her gaze flitted up over his shoulder. "Nobody's watching," she said, and Ichabod twisted around.

"There doesn't appear to be," he agreed, but didn't understand why she gave a little huff, sounding half-exasperated, half amused.

"I'll be back," she said, heading toward the street. "Wait right here. Don't go anywhere." And then she disappeared around the corner of the building.

* * *

Time wore on, and Marisa didn't return. Ichabod uncomfortably shifted his weight between his feet, feeling distinctly nervous. "I wonder what's keeping her," he said vaguely to Lily, but she didn't reply. She stood silently with her head bowed, although she'd removed her voluminous black hood. A nearby roar of laughter caused him to snap around, and he froze in horror. _Oh no…_

"Well, what've we got here?" a drunken voice slurred. Four shady-looking figures were sauntering toward.

"Mage, by the looks of 'im," another voice spoke up.

"That so?" The first figured strode up until he was mere inches away from Ichabod's face. A Nord, he was nearly eye-to-eye with him and twice—maybe three times as thick. "Out for a stroll in the moonlight with your whore, eh?" Ichabod turned helplessly to Lily, but she only stood there, staring blankly at the drunkards.

Nine Divines, they were about to be murdered, he thought in terror. They'd survived the Oblivion Crisis—the Battle of Bruma, the Imperial City siege—only to be stabbed in an alley and left for dead. He could feel beads of perspiration forming on his forehead, and his hands were trembling.

"Answer the question, mage." The Nord shoved him, and he staggered backward as the rest of the groups laughed heartily.

"You know, a fancy mage like him—prob'ly carryin' a whole lotta septims," another said, and they began edging closer. Ichabod's throat had gone dry.

"No," he said, and he hated how high and tight his voice sounded. "I don't have any money."

"He don't got no money!" The uproarious laughter began again, and Ichabod struggled against the blind panic threatening to overtake him. He was just a mage, he was absolutely defenseless against a rabble like this, he didn't know how to fight…

Except he did. With one trembling, sweaty hand, he called forth his most powerful destruction magic. The gang fell silent as their gazes fell on the ball of flicking energy hovering above his palm. However, Ichabod noticed the shift in their demeanors. They weren't just picking a fight for amusement anymore; now they were preparing for battle. Clearly, a greater show of force would be necessary.

"I think you gentlemen have had quite enough fun for one evening." His voice wavered, but he managed to put some weight behind the words. Without letting his destruction spell waver, he brought up his other hand and called forth a Dremora. Conjuration was harder now; the threads of the fabric between worlds no longer bent so easily. But he didn't need much. Just a Churl would do. And as it appeared in a puff of orange, the drunks let out a collective gasp, staggering backward. Despite their altered state, recent events were clearly still fresh in their minds

"Orders?" the Churl snarled. Ichabod nodded toward the drunks.

"Escort these fine gentlemen to the nearest guard," he commanded. The Churl nodded and stepped forward purposefully.

"No, no that won't be necess'ry." The leader, the Nord who'd pushed Ichabod protested, shaking his head as he backed away. "No escortin'. We're goin'. We're goin'!" And they turned and fled down the street.

Ichabod let the destruction spell fade away and released the Churl, slumping back against the side of the building with a sigh. His heart was thundering, and his hands were still shaking; all his strength felt as though it had been sapped. But it wasn't just the encounter with the drunks. It'd been the Dremora: the metallic sound of its voice, the smell of sulfur it carried with it. Things that haunted his dreams, things he'd desperately been trying to forget. He let out another sigh—and that was when he remembered Lily.

She had vanished from her spot beside him, and didn't appear to be anywhere in the general vicinity. He called her name, and called it again, his heart once again accelerating when there was no reply. He was on the verge of panic when he finally spotted her.

She was no more than a dark blur, interrupting the moons' reflections on the water. She had waded out into the lake, standing absolutely still there in the water. Cursing under his breath, he splashed in after her.

"What was that, Lily?" he demanded when he reached her. "They meant business, and you just…just wandered off?" She didn't turn around, or say a word, or make any other sort of reply. Then, very slowly, her thin shoulders shrugged.

"Nobody had it under control." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Nothing was going to happen." Well, she was right that no one had any control! But his anger faded into worry at the fact that she didn't seem to care. A dangerous situation had meant nothing to her—no survival mechanism of any kind had kicked in. And of course, there was the fact that she was just standing there in the lake. The water was up past his knees, and he shivered as it soaked up higher on his robes.

"Lily?" When she didn't reply, he placed his hands lightly on her shoulders. He was surprised by how fragile she felt, but when she shifted beneath his touch, he felt the rippling of muscle that still remained. Had she really wasted away so much in a matter of weeks? "Let's go back to shore." But she didn't move, or give any indication that she'd heard him.

"He loved nights like these," she said suddenly, softly. "He loved clear skies." A faint snort. "Of course, winter in the Jeralls means constant snow clouds. I don't think he saw a clear night until…"

Her voice trailed off, and he leaned down to speak into her ear. "Lily, let's go back to shore."

"He loved springtime, too," she continued. "It was his favorite time of year. How cruel is that: that he died before spring began?" Unspeakably cruel. All of it was, the whole entire wretched business. But he felt no need to state the obvious, and she clearly wasn't listening to a word he was saying, so he remained silent.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this." Her voice had dropped even lower, barely a whisper. "He had the Amulet and the Elder Council's approval, and he was supposed to ride down from the mountain and light the Dragonfires, and then the Crisis would end, and he'd be Emperor and it'd be spring, and…and…" Her breath caught in her throat, and she fell silent, the minutes stretching out between them.

"I killed him, you know," she said suddenly.

"Lily, don't say that," he said immediately, reproachfully, but she shook her head.

"No. It's true, I did." She sucked in a deep breath. "I had the Amulet, Ichabod. I was there when the Emperor died. And I had the Amulet in my possession for _four whole years_ before I did a _damn_ thing about it."

It somehow felt as though the world had stopped. Everything froze still in its place as he struggled to comprehend what he'd just heard. How, how in Nirn or Oblivion, had she gotten mixed up in _that_? His shock at discovering she was the Hero of Kvatch had been nothing—_nothing_—compared to this. The official report had contained very little information, but in that year he'd spent searching for her, he'd heard the whispers of the Legion. According to them, the Emperor had been slain when he was ambushed in a secret escape route under the city. What could she have _possibly _been doing there? And if she had the Amulet, _why_ had she waited _four years_ to turn it into the Blades? A sudden thought occurred to him then; she would have had it all that time. On that golden autumn afternoon, when she'd popped out of the bushes and slain that wolf—she'd been carrying the _Amulet of Kings_.

His silence was beginning to get to her. He still had his hands on her shoulders, and he could feel her tensing beneath his touch. "Well?" she said, and he thought he could detect a note of fear in her voice. "Aren't you going to say anything?"

He sighed, leaning forward and resting his chin on top of her head. "I don't know," he admitted wearily. His head was reeling with the information that he'd just been given, but he could feel the wild thoughts racing around his head gradually settling into coherent ones. "I don't know _how _you got mixed up in all of this, but honestly, I'm not so sure I want to know." He sighed again.

"I never believed in destiny, Lily," he continued. "I believed in myself. I believed in hard work, and the fact that I was—probably—smarter than at least most of the people around me." He hesitated. "But after this past month—well, I'd be a fool to deny it. I heard what the Countess said in Bruma. And I know what she meant. You're a Hero, Lily, a real Hero like in the legends. And Heroes…well, they don't always seem to make the best choices. Take the Nerevarine, for example. He was a prisoner; that's how he even ended up in Morrowind in the first place. So was the Eternal Champion. And I don't know. Maybe you made some mistakes. Maybe even some pretty terrible ones. But you walked through Oblivion itself. You took back the Amulet. And I know you defended him until his last breath. Nirn as we know it would no longer exist if it weren't for you. You didn't kill him, Lily. You saved us."

His words were intended to be comforting, but instead had the opposite effect. She was adamantly shaking her head, her breath coming in short, heavy gasps. "No, that's not it," she said, desperation clinging to her tone. "I let them down, don't you understand? All of them. The entire Septim line. I let his father die, and then I _killed_ him." Her voice broke, and she turned around to face him. "I can't have this baby, Ichabod," she whispered, and then to his horror, she broke into sobs.

What was he supposed to do? What could _anyone_ be expected to do in this situation: standing in a lake with a crying woman who just happened to be carrying the child of the late Emperor—who had also been a friend of theirs? He didn't know. Honestly, he wasn't sure he knew _anything_ anymore. So he reached out, pulled her into his chest and held her as she cried.

* * *

After a while, when her sobs had dissipated into sniffles, he pulled away and looked down to meet her eyes. "Feel better?" he asked. Her face began to crumple again.

"No," she admitted, scrubbing at her eyes with the sleeve of her robe.

"You probably won't," he said quietly. "Not for a long while."

"I know," she whispered. For a long moment, she held his gaze, and then uneasily glanced away. "Am I doing the right thing here?" she asked suddenly. He immediately knew, of course, what she was talking about.

"I don't know." He shook his head. "Honestly, Lily, I'm probably the worst person to ask about this." He shifted uncomfortably, suddenly noticing the chill of the water again. "But let's go back to shore. Please? Marisa's probably worried sick." For a moment, he thought she was going to refuse again, but then she slowly began to nod.

But as they splashed up onto the shore again, Ichabod felt his heart nearly stop for the fifth?—sixth?—he was losing count—time that night as he made out a row of figures waiting there in the darkness, arms folded over their chests, swords at their sides. Beside him, Lily froze as well, but as she let out a string of curses, he suddenly realized who they were facing. "Evening, Lily." Baurus stepped forward out of the shadows. "Ichabod." He nodded in his direction.

"What in _Oblivion_ are you _doing_ here?" Lily demanded through clenched teeth. Baurus, however, appeared unfazed.

"Our duty," he said solemnly. "My men and I are here to escort you to Cloud Ruler Temple."

"Excuse me?" Lily demanded, a hint of her old fire back in her voice. "Why? Why would you do that? And what makes you think I'd agree to it?"

Baurus gave a deep sigh. "It is the sworn duty of the Blades to guard the Septim line," he said. "And until the birth, that includes you, too."

For once in her life, Lily was speechless. Out of the corner of his eye, Ichabod caught sight of her, and even in the moonlight, he could practically see her blanch bone-white. "How do you know about that?" Her voice was quiet but deadly, and even Ichabod felt a shiver run down his spine.

"We've been keeping an eye on you. Grandmaster Steffan thought it wise, after everything that happened." His tone softened. "They did the same with me, after his father's death. It is not uncommon for the Emperor's protectors to…take things hard when…" He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.

"Hold up here for a second," Lily stated flatly. "You've had your Blades following me, watching me—because you thought I was going to _commit suicide_?" And as her anger flared, Ichabod let out a silent breath he didn't know he was holding. She'd be all right. Maybe she didn't realize it yet, but if she was angry, she'd get through it. Baurus, however, at least had the grace to look uncomfortable.

"It has happened," he said. "And I'm glad we did, all things considered." He gestured vaguely toward her abdomen, and her face morphed into a heated glare.

"You don't have any say over this," she spat sourly. "It wasn't supposed to happen. So let's just go on pretending that it never did. Two of them have already died on my watch; you really want to entrust me with a third?"

"Ah, yes," Baurus said. His tone was vague, but Ichabod didn't like the way the other man's eyes narrowed in the dim light. "Baragon?" he called over his shoulder.

"Yes, Captain Baurus?" came the faint reply.

"Bring her forward." There was the sound of shuffling armor, and then suddenly, one of the Blades pushed a slight figure out into the moonlight. A torch flared to life, and Lily let out a gasp. Even Ichabod felt his jaw drop in horror.

"Marisa!" Lily stepped forward, but the Blade pulled the girl back.

"Absolutely not." Baurus stepped into her path. "We overheard the entire conversation in the temple. Planning to end the life of an unborn Septim heir? This young lady is to be charged with conspiracy and treason—the penalty of which is _death_." He said the words darkly as he glowered at the woman before him.

"What about me?" Lily demanded. "I agreed to it. I'm the one who decided to make it happen. Am I getting hauled to prison too?"

"You're the mother," Baurus snapped. "That's different. Her, on the other hand—" he jabbed a finger in Marisa's direction, "she is an outside party _and_ she was the mastermind."

"She's _sixteen_," Lily hissed. "Is this what the Blades have come to? Murdering children?" She let out a short laugh. "Not that it matters. If there's no Emperor to approve the execution, it can't occur."

Ichabod had his gaze fastened on Marisa for this entire exchange. He wondered if he could send some kind of calming spell her way without the Blades noticing, but decided against it. Illusion wasn't his greatest strength, and besides, it didn't look as though she needed it. He would have expected a sixteen-year-old girl—or anyone, really—in her position to be crying and struggling, but she stood stiff and straight as an iron rod, her face stoic. How could she be that calm in the face of imprisonment—and possible death?

"No, the Emperor can't approve an execution," Baurus growled. "He's not born yet. But tell me, Lily—did the Emperor pause to make a formal approval when the Mythic Dawn attacked?"

Ichabod briefly glanced over to see she'd crossed her arms over her chest. "What are you getting at Baurus?" she asked softly.

"In the event of immediate danger to the Septim line, the Blades have authority to act." He nodded at one the Blades, and suddenly there was the cold rasp of a sword being drawn. "I could give the order myself." It was then that Ichabod saw the fear appear in Marisa's dark eyes.

"_Enough of this!_" Ichabod didn't even recognize the voice that tore from Lily's throat. He did, however, recognize the emotion he saw splay across Baurus' face—the same one that had just appeared on Marisa's. Slowly, he turned to Lily—and drew in a horrified breath.

She had produced a dark, ornately decorated dagger, seemingly out of nowhere—and now had it pressed to her own neck. "Let her go, Baurus." There was finality in her tone, and a maniacal glint in her eyes. "Now. I mean it."

Slowly, the Blade nodded. "Let her go, Baragon," he said faintly. The Blade released his hold, and the girl scrambled to Lily's side.

"Are you all right?" The question was clearly directed toward Marisa, but Lily didn't take her eyes from Baurus'.

The girl anxiously bobbed her head. "Yes, Lis—Lily." The slip didn't go unnoticed by Ichabod, and he wondered, for about the fiftieth time, what "Listener" meant—and why the girl wasn't saying it in front of the Blades.

"You got what you wanted." Baurus sounded distinctly nervous, an emotion Ichabod never thought he would hear from the man. "Now put it down." There was a pause. "For _Talos' sake_, Lily, _put it down_!"

"Not until you hear my terms." Lily's voice was crisp, cool. Baurus nodded. "You will bring no harm—physical or otherwise—to my friends and associates." She paused. "In return, I will go with you to Cloud Ruler Temple."

"You can't!"

"Be quiet, Marisa," Lily instructed. "Baurus? Do we have a deal?"

"We do." The Blade solemnly nodded, and there was a collective sigh of relief as she lowered the dagger.

Baurus' face was ashy, and he appeared to be trembling slightly. "I wouldn't have done it," he muttered, although no one appeared to be listening. "I wouldn't have actually hurt the girl."

Marisa, meanwhile, was on the verge of hysterics. "You can't go!" she all but shouted at Lily. "We _need_ you." However, Lily's face had gone stoic.

"This isn't worth anyone having to die over," she said. "There's been enough death." She paused. "Business won't pick up for a while. And if it does…" She shrugged. "Figure something out. Use your eyes, your ears. Use nobody." However, the girl was clearly unsatisfied.

"I don't like it," she muttered.

"You don't have to," Lily said. "You just have to do as I say." The girl rolled her eyes, but then Lily had her pressed into a hug. "Take care of yourself, Marisa," she murmured. "Train hard. Be smart."

"I will." The girl begrudgingly nodded as she pulled away.

Lily was stepping toward the Blades, but she still hadn't looked at Ichabod. So he called after her, called her by name.

She paused. Turned back to him. Gave him one last look before she walked out of his life yet again. And she smiled a sad, painful smile. One of the Blades touched her elbow then, and she turned and followed them into the darkness without a single parting word. But no more could have been said than the water's lament already had.

* * *

**A/N: I truly hope I didn't offend anyone with this chapter; between the mentions of suicide and abortion, I know there was a lot of potentially offensive material. ****Also, I feel like Baurus sort of came off as the bad guy, which he's not. He's not at all. He's newly redeemed but still incredibly guilty, and he's desperate not to screw up again, so to speak. I guess I just feel the need to defend him after I've painted him in such an unflattering light.**

**Again, I hope I didn't offend anyone. Of course, there's the chance that no one had any problem with it, and you're all wondering why I'm still rambling. In that case, carry on :)**


	54. Chapter 51: Valenwood Again

**A/N: Hi everyone! Sorry for the delay in updating, especially since last chapter was so weighty. But I had friends visiting from out of town, and some important deadlines for my thesis. Speaking of my thesis, it's literally taking up every spare minute I have, so updates will probably be less frequent from here on out. However, we're SO close to the end, and I'm on Spring Break this week, so we'll see! I know I've been promising an end date for months, but this story WILL be completed by the time I graduate. I can guarantee that much, at least.**

**Also, for those of you who are interested, Antoinetta has her own story now! If you've enjoyed my interpretation of her, you should go check it out. It's on my profile (obviously), and it's called Of A Cold, Loving Embrace. I only have the first chapter up at the moment, but I thought I'd alternate between updating that and this one (at least until Shriller is finished), so chapter 2 will be up sometime this week.**

**I think that's all for the moment. Enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter 51: Valenwood Again

_Ichabod_

Those next several days he spent alone with his thoughts on the road were filled with confusion and unanswered questions. But once he returned to the University, he scarce had the time to think on Lily—or her unborn child—any longer. His research into the Ayleid language, which had hit a roadblock back in the winter, had suddenly made several leaps ahead, and before he knew it, at long last he had a rough working knowledge of the language. As the horrors of Oblivion began to fade from the Empire, requests for translations came pouring in from all corners of Tamriel, and for the rest of he summer, he could hardly find time to breathe.

In addition, he was hard at work with conjuration as well. With the gates between Oblivion and Nirn sealed, conjuration was now harder, but not impossible. And after several months of careful research and dedicated practice, he began to develop a new, modified technique—a technique that was more efficient and effective in light of the changes brought about by recent events. His nightmares had never really faded, and so he spent many sleepless nights in the Mystic Archives, reading through information on various theories over and over again. And it was in those times that his thoughts would briefly wander. In his minds eye, he could see her there, sitting in the great hall at Cloud Ruler Temple or perhaps walking the battlements, shapeless beneath her black robes—except for a swelling at her abdomen.

It would be then that he'd shake his head, clear his throat, and force himself to refocus. A new era had begun—in spirit, if not yet in name—and if the Guild didn't prepare for the changes that were coming, it would be brought to its knees. So he pressed on with his work, and by the end of the summer, it had paid off. In Last Seed, he was named a full Wizard. His time as a student was over; now _he _was the master.

He was assigned to teach an advanced theoretical course, and in light of his new technique, he was placed in charge of overseeing the conjuration workshops. Between that and his translations, his autumn was turning out to be every bit as busy as his summer. So one morning in Sun's Dusk when an Apprentice knocked on his door to let him know he had a visitor in the lobby, he didn't even bat an eyelash.

Visitors were quite common now. Couriers often travelled in from Ayleid excavation sites with rubbings of engravings that had been found, and Mages Guild representatives from all across the Empire often arrived to learn of his conjuration technique in person. But the last thing he was expecting was for a Blade to be standing there on the other side of the door.

He froze, and the man took several small, eager steps toward him, tucking his helmet under his arm. "Ichabod?" he ventured.

Ichabod nodded stiffly. "Yes."

The Blade closed the rest of the distance between them, and offered a hand. He pulled back when Ichabod didn't shake it, however, uncomfortably clearing his throat.

"I'm Ferrum, of the Blades," he said by way of introduction, and at that, a small twinge of sadness passed over Ichabod. No longer the Emperor's Blades. Just the Blades. But then he remembered his last encounter with them, and fixed the man with the most intimidating stare he could muster.

"Is there something I can help you with?" he asked crisply, but he strongly suspected he already had an inkling of the answer. It wasn't an inspiring thought.

Ferrum frowned, and began to nod. "Yes," he said slowly. "There is, actually." He shifted his weight from one foot to another, the plates of his armor shuffling together, and Ichabod suddenly realized that the man was nervous. He felt his own frown deepen as he braced himself. Whatever this was about, it wasn't good.

"Have you had any contact from the Champion of Cyrodiil lately?" the Blade suddenly asked, and Ichabod winced. Yes, there was no way this was good. "Any letters, any messages of any kind? Or, of course, seeing her in person?"

Ichabod sighed. "No," he responded simply, although his mind was reeling. They didn't know where she was? Had she managed to escape, then? But in her condition…

The news was clearly troubling to the Blade. He frowned, his lips tightening into a grim line. "I see," he said. He took a deep breath, then looked up to meet Ichabod's gaze. "I need you to come with me to Cloud Ruler Temple," he said bluntly. And Ichabod let out a small laugh of disbelief.

"I'm sorry? I'm a busy man," he said sharply. He couldn't help but feel a quick shiver of terror run through him. The last time he'd witnessed someone refuse the Blades' summons, things had gotten downright ugly. The man wouldn't…he just couldn't… "I—I have business to take care of. Things that require my attention. I know your organization tends to be…unorthodox, but you can't just… That _is_ kidnapping under Tamrielic law, after all; you can't…"

At least the man had the grace to look embarrassed. "I know there was…an _incident_ during your last encounter with the Blades," he said carefully. "But the Grandmaster sends his most sincere apologies, and you have his utmost assurance that nothing of the sort will ever happen again." He cleared his throat. "I'm here at his personal request, actually. The Blades will not force you to do anything against your will, but we…" Here, he hesitated. "We need your help."

Ichabod kept his gaze locked onto the man's. "What happened to her?" he asked quietly. The man winced. "That _is_ what this is about, isn't it?" The man squirmed, but began to nod.

"I'm not at liberty to disclose the details," he said. "But yes. It concerns the safety of the Champion."

Ichabod let out a long, exhausted sigh. "It's always this way, isn't it?" He shifted his gaze back to the Blade. "I need at least a day to prepare," he said firmly. "There are matters far too important to be abandonded at the drop of a hat."

The Blade nodded earnestly, breathing a clearly visible sigh of relief. "Of course," he said. "Whatever you need. I can meet you at Chestnut Handy Stables tomorrow morning, though? Six a.m.?"

"Yes," Ichabod wearily agreed, and then the man expressed his thanks and was gone. The rest of the day was spent making arrangements for who would take over his classes and who would handle any messages that came for him while he was gone; that evening, he packed. And true to his word, he was at the Chestnut Handy Stables by six the next morning.

Given his role in Mehrunes Dagon's defeat, at Chancellor Ocato's command the Elder Council had bequeathed to him a sizable sum of septims, and the first thing he'd done with the money was to head to the stables and purchase Pamela. The little grey mare had seen him through so much he couldn't bear the thought of her being mistreated at the hands of the brutes who might hire her out—or, of course, being boiled into a stew. So each month, he sent a small stipend to the stable owner for her feed and board, and he tried to find the time to to take her out at least once a week. She seemed to sense something was different today, though, pricking her ears and pawing at the ground as he saddled her.

He was ready to go by the time Ferrum arrived, and then they took off. The other man hadn't known about the shortcut across the City Isle, but was delighted at the chunk of time it would remove from their trip. Other than that, however, they didn't speak much at all; a far cry from the time he had last made the journey between Cloud Ruler and the City.

They reached the fortress at sunset, as the mountain was set alight with a blaze of colors. There was already a heavy snowfall at this elevation, and as the deep orange light painted the snow, Ichabod suddenly felt as though he were once again surrounded by the fires of Oblivion. He forced himself to shake off the feeling, however, as they approached the gates.

They were already being pulled open, however, for a duo that had arrived just ahead of them on foot. The Blade was wrapped in a heavy woolen cloak; the other was a sharp-featured young man whose bare arms were thickly banded with muscle. He had a heavy, dual-edged axe strapped to his back, and as Ichabod and Ferrum led the horses past, he sent a curious glance in their direction. He was decidedly familiar, Ichabod thought as Pamela struggled up the ice-slickened steps, but for the life of him, he couldn't place where he'd seen him before.

In the great hall, however, he was met with another familiar face. "Marisa!" he gasped out. The girl sat primly at one of the long tables wearing a grey woolen dress, her hair neatly woven into a tight braid. She wasn't wearing the heavy makeup she had the last time they'd met, but somehow without it, she looked older. Or perhaps it was the expression of disapproval etched across her face.

"So they've dragged you up here too, hmm?" she said conversationally, but her tone was heavy with displeasure. "First they show up and I get an interrogation, now _this_." Her face twisted sourly, but then the doors thudded shut behind the young man Ichabod had seen on the steps, and there was a sound of a throat being cleared.

"Ah, good. Everyone's arrived." Ichabod glanced up to see Steffan enter the room, flanked by several other Blades. It was the first time he'd seen the man since he'd been named Grandmaster, and he was surprised by the toll it had already seemed to take on him. He smiled thinly, and gestured toward the table Marisa sat at. "I'm sure you're all wondering why I've asked you here. Please, have a seat and we can begin."

They did as requested, civilians and Blades alike, and someone pulled a chair over for Steffan to sit at the head of the table. Once they were all seated, he leaned forward and carefully regarded each of them. "I know you must be wondering why I've summoned you all here today," he began. "By now I'm sure you have an idea, but allow me to explain." He cleared his throat. "As you know, the Champion of Cyrodiil is carrying Martin Septim's child, and is weeks away from delivery at most."

"Hold on for just a minute." Steffan was interrupted by the young man sitting several seats down from Ichabod's left. "This Martin—that Emperor fellow—_he's_ the father?" There was an incredulous note to his tone, and Ichabod felt a scowl work its way across his face. Who _was_ this man, anyway? But Steffan was nodding.

"Yes. They became…quite close in the months he spent here." The stranger made a _hmph _sound as he sat back, crossing his arms over his chest, and Steffan continued. "However, the Champion has recently…" he cleared his throat, "disappeared from under the watch of the Blades."

There was silence around the table, and then Marisa leaned forward. "You mean you _lost_ her?"

"Nobody _lost_ anybody!" one of the Blades protested, and a murmur rose around the table. For being the Emperor's finest, Ichabod noted to himself, they sure seemed to argue a lot.

"Blades!" Steffan rapped his armored knuckles on the tabletop, and the noise died down. "_Lost_ is not the word I would use, but for all intents and purposes, the Champion _has_ disappeared. About two weeks ago, she retired at her usual time, and all seemed well. She did not emerge in the morning, and when Jena went in to check on her—"

"—she was gone." One of the Blades cut in. "The bed was made up, all the windows were shut and latched, and the room was completely empty."

"We immediately scoured the entire fortress, but she was nowhere to be found." Steffan picked up again. "We then began searching the mountainside and sent a contingent down into the city. When that search turned up futile, we alerted the Legion. They are watching the roads, but so far, there's been no sign of her." He fidgeted in his seat. "A pregnant woman on foot should not be so hard to trace, not to mention one who can barely see. We _are_ beginning to fear the worst, but we're not willing to give up hope just yet. That is why we've called you here today."

"On foot?" Marisa leaned forward again. "What happened to Shadowmere?"

"That beast of hers?" A Blade at the end of the table spoke up. "We had to turn it loose months ago. It was barely here two weeks before it began attacking the other horses. As well as anyone who dared to get near it." If Ichabod didn't know better, he would have sworn he saw the man shudder. "Horrible, horrible teeth," he muttered, almost as an afterthought.

"So…she's got Shadowmere." Marisa nodded confidently. "That would explain why you can't find her. That horse is the fastest thing on four feet."

"This was months ago," the Blade objected. "The horse is long gone by now." But Marisa was shaking her head.

"I doubt that. Shadowmere never likes to stray too far from her. She probably came running the moment Lily left the fortress."

"Speaking of which." Ichabod leaned forward, joining the exchange. "All of you seemed…quite intent on keeping her several months back. How did she even manage to make it out of the fortress in the first place?" That single question sent an even more heated furvor rippling through the Blades, and Steffan had to raise his voice as he called for order.

As the noise faded, however, a low chuckle could be heard from forther down the table. All eyes turned toward the mysterious man. "She was born under the sign of the Shadow," he chortled, and a faint murmur of comprehension spread around the table. "She probably walked right out through the front doors, and nobody would have noticed."

There was a cough from over Ichabod's right shoulder, and he started, jerking around to see Baurus standing there beind them. He hadn't even heard the man approach. He seemed to have aged from the last time Ichabod had seen him, his face haggard and his hair gone grey at the temples. "It's very likely," the Blade grunted. "That's how she did it the last time."

"The 'last time?'" another Blade questioned, and even Steffan straightened in his chair.

"This has happened before?" the Grandmaster asked sharply. Although his neck was craned around at an uncomfortable angle, Ichabod couldn't help but notice that Baurus was looking everywhere but at the Grandmaster.

"Back in the winter," he admitted. A low buzz rose up from the Blades.

"And it didn't cross your mind she might try it again?" someone asked.

"So it's really _Baurus' _fault," another said.

But Baurus drew himself up to full height, his eyes cold and glittering. "For six months," he said through clenched teeth, "she sat _right_ there." He jabbed an armored finger in the direction of the fireplace. "Never moving, never even speaking. She can hardly see, and as big as she'd gotten I don't understand how she could even _move_. This was the _absolute last _thing I would have expected."

Steffan, too, had risen from his chair. "Blades, we are not jumping to hasty conclusions here," he said calmly. "Baurus is no more to blame than any one of us." He then turned to the seething Captain. "If you're aware that she did this before, I'm sure you discovered her? Tracked her, perhaps?"

Baurus nodded, seemingly understanding where the Grandmaster was going with this. "She went to a farm, not too far from the city. Believe me, it was the first place I checked. There was no sign of her." The Grandmaster nodded, and then his gaze drifted around the table.

"Well, seeing as we once again have no leads, this brings us back to the reason we brought you here. The three of you know her far better than we do. Do you have any idea of where she might have gone? Anywhere at all? Some place of special signifigance, perhaps?"

Ichabod blinked. They expected _him_ to know where she went? What she got herself into? He tried not to snort. He was probably the most ignorant person on that subject in the province—in the entire Empire, in fact. Down the table from him, the strange man sighed.

"Beats me." He shrugged. "I would say Anvil, but I haven't heard from her, and if she were with our mother, I would have heard about it. Especially since she doesn't even know she's pregnant." He threw up his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. "I was very clearly forbidden from telling her."

'Our' mother? Something clicked as Ichabod stared down the table at the man's dark green eyes. "You're her brother." A slight frown crossed the man's face, but he nodded.

"Yeah. I'm Enilroth." And he lunged across the two Blades seated between them to offer his hand in greeting. "And you are…?" His frown had returned, and for some reason, Ichbod felt suddenly nervous.

"Ichabod. Wizard of the Mages Guild. I'm…a friend."

"Yes, what about you, Ichabod?" He froze as the Grandmaster addressed him. "Do you know where she might have gone?" Every eye in the room turned to him, and his mind raced. "I don't know," he said quickly. "Chorrol? We had a mutual friend there once…" She _had _indicated that she'd been spending time with Dar-Ma the summer before last, but that had been over a year ago and so much had happened since then…

"Dar-Ma?" One of the Blades leaned forward. "Yes, she sent her some letters over the summer. We've already spoken with her, but she didn't think she'd be of much help, and besides, she couldn't leave her son."

"Her _what?_" Ichabod's head was reeling. Dar-Ma? Of all people, _Dar-Ma?_ By the Nine, were _all _of his friends having children all of a sudden? Lily was one thing, but he'd known Dar-Ma since _they_ were children…The Blades, however, were staring at him curiously.

"She has a young boy. Several months old, I believe." The same Blade cocked an eyebrow at him. "She seemed quite content."

"I see," Ichabod managed faintly. Luckily, the Blades' attention had turned to Marisa.

"And what about you?" Steffan asked. "I've heard the Champion means quite a lot to you." Thoughts of Dar-Ma and her son—_her son!_—were completely forgotten as Ichabod looked up just in time to see a malicious glint flash across Marisa's eyes.

"Yes," she said slowly, drawing the word out, and Ichabod cringed. Clearly, the girl was still nurturing a grudge. "She _does _mean a lot to me. There's only been one person who's ever stopped an angry raging _psycho_ of a Blade from cutting off my _head_. And that would be her." She smiled angelically, and Ichabod watched in awe as the entire dynamic of the room shifted. The angry teenager suddenly held all the cards, and all the Blades could do was grovel at her feet.

"My Blades have apologized," Steffan said. "And _I _would like to personally offer my own most sincere apologies. The mission was poorly conceived, and even more poorly excuted. Unexpected factors had arisen, and tempers were running high. However, I, as Grandmaster, should have forseen all possible scenarios and planned accordingly, regardless of my recent appointment."

But Marisa simply crossed her arms over her chest. "If it only took you a matter of weeks to lose control of your order, what makes you think you can protect her baby?" she asked softly. "Maybe they're even better off without all of you."

The effect was astounding. Instead of a chorus of angry voices rising in protest, the room was filled with dead silence. Ichabod dared to glance around at the Blades, and their gazes were all fastened securely in their laps. The shame filling the room was tangible. But then Steffan drew in a breath very slowly, and the room's attention shifted to him.

"I'd be a fool to deny that I've made mistakes," he said quietly. He still hadn't looked up from the table's battered surface. "We all have. The past five years seem to be filled with nothing _but_ mistakes. Losing two Emperors, and losing track of a third…" He exhaled, and the same uncomfortable tension rippled through the Blades. "But all we can do now is try to rectify that." He lifted his gaze to Marisa's. "Regardless of your feelings toward us—justified or not—your friend is somewhere out there, most likely alone, and possibly in trouble. She's dangerously close to delivery, and Septim births are _never_ easy. We _have_ to find her, both for her child's sake _and _her own. So if there's anything you know, Marisa, anything you know that could help—please tell us."

Ichabod was now glancing down at his hands, feeling somewhat uncomfortable with the Grandmaster's earnest confession. He dared a glance at Marisa, and saw that she was mimicking his posture. "The only places I can think of," she muttered, "would be Cheydinhal or Bravil. And I'm absolutely certain she's not in Cheydinhal."

"Well, she's not in Bravil." Enilroth suddenly spoke up. "I can guarantee that."

"Oh?" Steffan raised an eyebrow. "Why so certain?"

Enilroth snorted. "That's a joke, right?" he asked incredulously. He glanced around the table. "That's where we _lived_, that's where…" His words trailed off as he met Ichabod's gaze, and he quickly glanced away. "She always hated Bravil," he said quickly, and his gaze flickered back down to the table.

"You lived there?" Marisa asked quickly. Ichabod glanced over her way, and to his surprise she was leaning across the table as she stared at Enilroth, wearing an intent expression. "She actually grew up there, in the shadow of the—" She cut herself off abruptly, and her face was suddenly tinged with red. Ichabod narrowed his eyes. She'd been about to say something—about to give away something important. But _what_? Something to do with 'Listener?' How did she even _know_ Lily in the first place? His suspicions were aroused, but Enilroth let out a snort, and his attention shifted back over to Lily's brother.

"We didn't _grow up_ in _Bravil_," he spat out, as if she'd suggested they were raised in a sewer. Then again, given what he'd seen of Bravil during that trip there his third year in the Guild… "We're Valenwood Bosmer, born and raised." He squared his shoulders proudly.

Valenwood Bosmer. Born and raised. Marisa was making some angry retort, but Ichabod's attention was captured from a voice drifting up from his past.

"_She always says how she was born in Valenwood, and thought she'd die there too…but instead she'll have to trade that for the fires of Oblivon." Martin had grown intent on folding and refolding the corner of a sheet of parchment. "She says Valenwood is home, and home is always the price when you do what you have to do…"_

"That's it." He straightened up as he made his revelation, every head in the room turning in his direction. "That's where she's gone. Back to Valenwood."

"Really? What makes you so sure?" Steffan asked, but before he could reply, he was loudly interrupted.

"She's not in Valenwood," Enilroth cut in, rolling his eyes. "That's the _last _place she would have gone." Ichabod felt his eyebrows rise dubiously.

"Are you certain?" he asked skeptically. "Martin said it was home to her."

"Of course it was home," Enilroth said exasperatedly, "but she wouldn't have gone back there. None of us could. It wasn't safe."

"Not safe?" Ichabod frowned. "How so?" But he was only met with a drawn-out sigh.

"Wizard, huh? For someone who's supposed to be smart, you really are stupid." Enilroth swiveled in his seat to face him, once again leaning over the Blades between them. "I guess you've never heard of an incident, about nine, ten years ago? A bunch of fanatics thought they'd bring back the 'old days,' before the Empire. And the best plan they could come up with was to burn every building they came across. That, and start slaughtering their familes, their friends, their neighbors…" The younger man nodded as Ichabod's eyes widened in comprehension. "Yeah, you've heard of it. That's how we ended up in Cyrodiil, anyhow. Our father thought his wife and children would make a great sacrifice."

Ichabod could suddenly feel the blood pounding through his ears. "How…did you ever escape?" he asked hoarsely. Although the man was her brother, he suddenly felt as though he were an intruder in a very private piece of Lily's life, and suddenly he wished he could erase the knowledge he'd just gained.

Enilroth shrugged. "The last I saw of my father, he was sprawled on the forest floor after my mother clubbed him. I don't know if he survived or not. But either way, the cult was still out there, and we had been marked. It wasn't safe."

As the shock wore off, Ichabod could feel logical, rational reasoning returning. "But it's been almost ten years," he said slowly. "And there was an increased Legion presence after the event, along with much stricter enforcement." He turned to survey the rest of the Blades. "Martin said she thought of Valenwood as home, but that she also thought of home as a _price_. A price to be paid for doing what she was supposed to. I was there that night, you know. She was hardly to keen on coming here. And obviously, somewhere along the way, she got tired of doing that. Isn't that the reason we're assuming she fled in the first place?" Around the table, there were conceding expressions, nods of agreement. He turned back to Enilroth. "You say it wasn't safe, but the last time I saw your sister I…" He hesitated. "I'd never seen her in that state before." Across the table, Marisa was nodding. "I don't think she felt she had anything left to lose."

And for the first time, Enilroth's iron mask of resolve wavered. "She…_did_ always dream of returning someday," he admitted. He sighed, and then he, too, began to nod. "Maybe you're right." He shifted his gaze to Steffan. "He's right," he repeated. "My sister is probably in Valenwood."

There was a low murmur among the Blades that instantly silenced as Steffan stood. "That's it, then," he said. "We will immediately begin preparing a contingent to travel to Valenwood and retrieve the Champion." The hum of noise flared up as everyone stood, and Steffan strode over to Enilroth.

"Now," he said. "Where _exactly_ in Valenwood can we expect to find her?"

"At our homestead. Near Silvenar."

"_Where_ near Silvenar?" Steffan pressed. "How far? In which direction?"

Enilroth shrugged. "There was a village not terribly far away. I can't remember the name, though."

Steffan sighed, and Ichabod could see the Grandmaster was growing exasperated. "That's not terribly much to go on," he said, his voice strained.

"Sorry. I was ten the last time I was there. I hadn't started paying to attention to directions yet." Enilroth shrugged again. "If I could see it for myself, I could probably figure out the way. Other than that, I don't think I'll be of much help."

But Steffan had visibly brightened. "Could you do that?" he asked eagerly. "Could you come with us?"

Enilroth hesitated, but then began to nod. "I told Varel I wasn't sure how long I'd be gone," he said. "Besides, he was thrilled when he found out the Champion of Cyrodiil was my sister." The younger man rolled his eyes. "He'll understand."

"Excellent!" Steffan said briskly, but then another Blade tapped Ichabod on the shoulder.

"I'm sorry, but it's time for you to leave," she said. Behind her, he could see Marisa also being escorted out. "This is Blades business now. We'll be happy to pay for you to stay the night in Bruma, and you can head home in the morning."

Ichabod nodded distractedly, but his attention was still fixed on Grandmaster Steffan and Enilroth. "Wait," he called out. "Could I come along as well?"

Steffan glanced over his shoulder. "This is Blades business," he said, his tone final. "Enilroth is only coming because we need him as a guide."

"She wasn't happy to see you the last time. Don't you think perhaps the more friendly faces in the party the better?" Steffan's frowned only deepened. "And beside's I'm a Conjuration Expert. If you run into any trouble you'll be able to use me," he quickly added in.

"That so?" One of the Blades chuckled. "Conjuration's different now. Everyone knows it. That's hardly a selling point." And several other Blades joined in the laughter.

"By old standards, yes," Ichabod corrected. "But to still practice by them using antiquated methods is both inefficient and downright foolish. The fibers between worlds are much more rigid now, yes. You can't just bend them out of the way to suit your fancy. No, you have to change the way you think about your target, about magicka. You have to change the way you think about _yourself_." He had begun using his instructor voice, he faintly realized, as he began pacing back and forth. "After all, what is magicka? It's _energy_. Instead of merely manipulating that energy to simply hook a target and pull it through, you have to _utilize _it. Let the magicka show you the way; let it guide your spell. And once you find your target, your magicka must fuse with that creature's energy. You _are_ your spell, your spell _is _your target. You must _become_ it. You and your target are one; a single filament of energy, weaving its way between worlds. And _then_—then you simply retract that energy; withdraw from the other side, return to a single plane._ That_ is when you can finally separate yourself from your target. And there you go—the conjuring is complete!"

Ichabod finished his speech triumphantly, only to be met with a blank silence. And then, Steffan's armored finger drifted up to point at him. "I have no idea what he just said," the Grandmaster stated flatly, "but he's coming with us." And as Ichabod breathed a quiet laugh of relief, he heard him mutter under his breath, "At least if we run into any trouble he can _talk _us out of it…"

* * *

They left in the morning, blown along by a cold wind laced with snow flurries. The snow stopped once they came down from the mountain, but the entire province, it seemed, was beginning to freeze over for the winter. From the Red Ring Road, they headed west along the Gold Road, with plans to cross over into Valenwood near Skingrad. They would head to Silvenar from there, and begin asking around for the exact location of the village Enilroth had indicated. From there, however, it would all be up to him.

Travel was nearly as slow as it had been on that ill-fated trip to the Imperial City, and Ichabod spent most of his time simultaneously wondering why he was doing this and trying to pretend he didn't already know. But not long after they crossed the border into Valenwood, his internal war was long forgotten. While Cyrodiil was already barren and desolate, Valenwood was in the height of autumn's glory. It was clear how it had earned the nickname "the Garden of Tamriel;" illustrations and descriptions didn't do it justice.

However, the forest was quite dense, and although the Blade reassured him several times that they were on a main road, it still felt like a backwoods footpath. The towering trees loomed overhead constantly, giving the impression that they were being watched, and it was a relief to finally see Silvenar come into sight.

He didn't get to see the city itself, though; Steffan and Baurus headed in with Enilroth to ask about the village, while he waited on the outskirts with the rest of the Blades. After the days of constant travel, it was nice to be able to rest for a bit. He laid down beneath one of the massive trees and watched the patterns of clouds travel across the sky, while Pamela nibbled at the nearby grass—which, unbelieveably, was still green.

Enilroth and the Blades returned after a couple hours, and they immediately set out again. "Apparantly, this village is to the northeast," Baurus explained as they rode along. "It has no name, and has been practically uninhabited since the uprising. A lot of folks seemed none to keen on giving up any information about it. Apparantly it was hit hard."

The mood of their party seemed to shift with that knowledge, growing noticeably more somber. The landscape changed as well; the terrain was rougher, the trees seemed thicker than ever—if that was even possible—and the road was so narrow they were forced to ride along single file, branches slapping at their arms.

Ichabod felt his spirits lift slightly as a thinning in the trees came into sight, only for them to plunge back down again when they caught their first real glimpse of the village. Burned husks of buildings were scattered everywhere, and the few that were still standing were dilapidated and covered in moss. There appeared to be no signs of recent life, although Ichabod could have sworn he saw an upstairs shutter slam shut as they rode past one of the houses. The whole village was eerily reminiscent of the one he and Lily had rescued Dar-Ma from all those years ago, and he was having a hard time understanding how such a place could ever feel like home to her. However, he got his answer when Enilroth let out a low whistle.

"Wow," the younger man breathed. "This is _unreal_." He reined in his horse and slid off. "We saw the smoke the day it happened, but I would have _never_ thought it'd be this bad." He took a few steps forward. "This used to be an Imperial outpost. By the time I was born, though, it was mostly civilians." He wandered toward one of the ruins. "This was the chapel. They had lessons here, but our mother never let us go. But we still attended sermons. Every Sundas and on holidays." He started toward another building, but paused. "That was the tavern," he said. "They sat right in there and planned it all." His tone had gone sharp, and he quickly began walking toward the edge of town, pausing to collect his horse's reins.

"You all may want to lead the horses on foot," he warned. "The path gets pretty narrow from here on out."

"What path?" Steffan asked, obviously confused. Ichabod shared the sentiment; the edge of the town ended in dense wall of brush.

"Right here." Enilroth pointed into the vegetation with a shrug, and took a few steps along what Ichabod now saw was little more than a barely-defined animal trail. There was the sound of shuffling armor all around him as the Blades dismounted and led their horses into the foliage.

Ichabod followed suit, although within half an hour, he thought he was about to lose his mind. "You don't see the path?" Enilroth kept asking. "Really? You guys don't see it?" _No, we obviously can't, _Ichabod wanted to snap at him, but he gritted his teeth together and pressed on. "It _has_ gotten a little overgrown," Enilroth was forced to admit once he and Ferrum had to start chopping undergrowth out of the way. By that point, Ichabod was absolutely convinced that the entire damned forest was going to swallow him alive. Brambles tore at his face and robes with every step, and he was constantly pushing aside vines that threatened to strangle him. But then ahead of him, Enilroth stopped short. "Nine Divines."

They'd reached a clearing, a long expanse of tall, weedy grass stretching out before them. In the middle, there was a blackened, tumbling-down structure with crumbling, exposed beams protruding from the gaping maw of debris. It was flanked on either side by broken fences, and Ichabod had the sudden, sick realization that this had once been Lily's family home. This was where she had been born, where she had grown up, where her earliest memories had been made. He tried to picture it as a charming little farmhouse, but the image was reluctant to form.

"I don't see her." Steffan's voice was careful, deliberate. "I don't see any sign of her." He took a few steps further into the clearing.

"I don't know where else she would have gone." Enilroth appeared absolutely bewildered, his forehead deeply creased. "She had a friend who lived a few miles away—maybe she went there? Or maybe south, to find Uncle Meldor and Aunt Nevaeh…"

Steffan cursed under his breath, and a murmur of unrest rippled through the Blades. And then the entire party nearly leapt out of their skins as, without warning, Pamela let out a high, piercing whinny. There were several grumbles of complaint, one of the Blades even making a show of rubbing at his ears, and Ichabod immediately turned to her, afraid something was wrong. But one of the Blades held up a hand. "Shhh! Listen…"

There was another whinny from Pamela, this one much softer. And then everyone heard it—a low whicker of response. "There!" Enilroth pointed toward the trees at the edge of the clearing, where the shadows had just moved.

"Shadowmere," Ichabod murmured as the enormous mare glided into sight.

"Her horse is here. So where's…" Steffan trailed off, unwilling to speak the question on all their minds. _Where was Lily?_ But then Ichabod suddenly noticed the way Shadowmere kept circling towards something at the edge of the clearing. Her ears were pricked, and she kept nosing toward the ground, toward something hidden in the grass…

Wordlessly, he dropped Pamela's reins and began to step in that direction. He heard someone call his name, but the others had seen it too, striding quickly toward it. They could see it now: something black there in the grass, and they hurried toward it wordlessly, all of them fearing the worst. "Oh, for the sweet love of Akatosh." And Ichabod froze. They all did. "Do you people _never_ quit?"

She was sprawled there in the grass, angry and very much alive, but the _sight _of her! Ichabod could only gape down at her in shock. Her face was puffy and bright tomato red, even redder than her hair. But most notable of all, her entire midsection had swelled up to two—three!—times its normal size, her limbs practically spindly by comparison, giving her the appearance of some kind of bloated tick. It was like something out of a nightmare, and given the expressions of those surrounding him, the others thought the same.

But she was alive, alive and cursing them, and Ichabod had never been so happy to see anything in his entire life. He wanted to throw himself down by her side, to demand that she never pull a disappearing act like this ever again. But she was glaring up at Steffan with all the ferocity of a caged wolverine, and Ichabod suddenly felt mildly afraid.

"You disappeared weeks from giving birth. What did you honestly expect?" Ichabod had expected the Grandmaster to be angry, but instead, the man just sounded tired. "How did you even make it here? Are you all right?"

But Lily had closed her eyes. "I just want to be left _alone_," she growled. "Why is that so hard to understand? How did you even _find_ me?"

Something was wrong though; the venom was fading from her words, her voice was growing faint. And then, Ichabod could only watch in horror as she let out a sharp gasp, her eyes scrunching further shut and her teeth gritting together. Fingers scraped claw-like at the ground as her entire body went rigid, her face twisting into an expression of utter agony.

"What's happening?" Steffan sounded panicked. "Achille!" The healer rushed forward, elbowing several of them out of his way.

"She's having contractions." He knelt by her side. "We need to get her back to Silvenar, immediately. She's going into labor." But before Ichabod could even register that thought—or begin to panic, another voice spoke out.

"Not neccesarily." And Baurus pushed past them, joining Achille at Lily's side.

"Baurus, I don't think—" Achille snapped, but Baurus cut him off.

"My mother was a midwife. Trust me, I'm far better equipped to handle this situation at the moment." And the healer wisely fell silent, rising and stepping away with a nod. "Now." Baurus turned to Lily. "Has this happened before?" The woman nodded.

"A few times last week." Her voice was still thick with pain, but Baurus nodded briskly, apparently pleased.

"It's fairly common. Unpleasant, to be sure, but nothing to worry about. Unless your water breaks." Perhaps it was Ichabod's imagination, but Lily appeared to guiltily glance away as he mentioned that last part. This didn't fail to escape Baurus' attention either.

"Lily?" he asked patiently. "_Did_ your water break?"

She finally glanced back over at him. "About half an hour ago," she muttered, and Baurus sagged back on his heels, exhaling deeply.

"Baurus?" Steffan's voice still had that anxious edge to it. "What does this mean? Is everything all right?" Baurus let out a low chuckle and began unbuckling his cuirass.

"Someone start a fire and get some water boiling. And I'm going to need all the spare rags we have. Clean ones, mind you." Discarding his cuirass, he started rolling up his sleeves. "This baby is coming, and it's coming _now._


	55. Chapter 52: Dragonborn

Chapter 52: Dragonborn

_Ichabod_

For a moment, Ichabod stood frozen, but then Baurus' head jerked back in their direction. "Now!" he snapped, and the Blades sprang into action.

"I'll start a fire." Steffan immediately headed over to the clearing's edge and began poking through the grass, presumably searching for kindling. The Grandmaster looked thrilled to have something to do, and judging from the rest of the Blades' reactions, it was a shared sentiment.

"I know I had some extra rags in my pack," someone said, and the others uncomfortably trailed after him.

"Achille, stay here with me," Baurus commanded. "I could use a healer's help." The Blade nodded, but jumped slightly as Enilroth appeared at his side, pushing past him. The young Bosmer knelt in the grass beside his sister.

"Hey, Elby," he said. Lily's eyes had slipped shut again, but they shot open at the sound of her brother's voice.

"_Enilroth?_" The surprise had overridden the pain in her tone. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Your Blade friends came and got me." He sat back on his heels. "Gods, Elby, you look _ridiculous_." Ichabod could hear the grin in the younger man's voice, but Lily's face creased into a frown.

"Shut up," she snarled. "You try carrying this _thing_ around inside you for nine months and see how great _you_ look."

"I'll take my chances," Enilroth remarked lightly. Lily appeared to be about to make an angry retort, but her face froze and her body tensed as another contraction began.

"Easy." Baurus lunged back to her side, pushing Enilroth out of the way. "Breathe through it. That's it." He sighed. "I wanted to go over this with you _before_ the birth.

"Well thanks, Baurus," Lily growled through clenched teeth. "That's so helpful of you. I was there for over six months; clearly you couldn't find the time before now."

"Right, and the fact that you had to go and run off had nothing to do with it." Baurus shook his head. "We could have done things the easy way, but that's never how it goes with you, does it?"

Ichabod had begun backing away uncomfortably, but luckily one of the Blades chose that moment to dash up. "How much do we have in our waterskins?" he asked, but Enilroth scrambled to his feet.

"There's a stream not too far away," he said. "Just get all the waterskins. I'll take care of it." He paused. "Want to help carry, Ichabod?"

"_Ichabod?_" Lily's voice rang out sharply, and suddenly, to his horror, she was scrabbling with her feet, pushing off the ground in an attempt to stand.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, easy!" Baurus grabbed her arm. "Settle down."

"_Why_ in _Oblivion_ is Ichabod here?" Lily's voice was filled with tension. "_Gods_, did you bring _everyone_ I know? Is Marisa out there too?" She raised her voice. "Arquen?" she called. "Caius? Mother?"

"All right, you've made your point." Baurus was clearly losing his patience. "We needed Enilroth as a guide, or we would have never found the place. And Ichabod…"

"I'm here for conjuration," Ichabod quickly cut in. Lily simply glared at her brother.

"Traitor," she muttered.

Enilroth cleared his throat. "Why don't we go get the water?" he asked cheerfully. He turned and began walking toward the edge of the clearing, and after a moment's hesitation, Ichabod followed.

The way to the stream turned out to be another path that wasn't—and Ichabod wasn't sure what Enilroth's definition of "not too far away" was, but it definitely didn't align with any common reasoning. The further into the dark woods they got, the more nervous Ichabod grew, but Enilroth would only reply with "Not much farther!" every time he asked if they were almost there. Finally, there was the sound of running water, and as a small stream came into view, Enilroth bounded forward and sprang atop the rocks.

"Hand me the waterskins," he called, leaning down impossibly low to reach the surface. Ichabod made his way forward much more gingerly, watching the younger man in fear that any moment he would slip and tumble into the stream, cracking his head on the rocks. But miraculously, he retained his balance, and within minutes, they were headed back to the clearing. They were making their way along in relative silence, until Enilroth broke it.

"So," he said conversationally. "Why are you really here?"

"I'm sorry?" Ichabod irritably swatted a low-hanging vine out of his way. Enilroth snorted, hopping over a tree root.

"The Blades say they're bringing the people they know of who are close with my sister to their fort, and then they say it's because she's disappeared carrying a Septim heir. And you were awfully quick to start begging to come along."

Ichabod nearly tripped over the same root Enilroth had just cleared. "Look, I—I don't know the specifics of your family situation. And I would never presume to make any unfounded judgments about anything that…might have happened. But when I met your sister, she was completely destitute and had no family to speak of. She was…unlike anyone I'd ever met before, and she became a very dear friend to me during a time in my life in which I had very few friends. And Martin—the Emperor—was a good friend as well." He sighed. "Perhaps I felt I owed it to the both of them to ensure their child is brought safely into the world. The Blades aren't the only ones plagued by guilt."

"Hmm." Enilroth wove around a tree. "Interesting."

"Interesting?" Ichabod repeated.

"Yeah. Here I was thinking it was because you thought it was yours."

"_Excuse me?_" Ichabod tried to rush forward, but tripped over a rock and ended up sprawling face down on the ground. He groaned, and looked up to see Enilroth watching, a bemused smirk on his face.

"Doing all right there?" he asked innocently. Ichabod gingerly sat up, inspecting his scraped hands and the now-torn hem of his robe.

"I think so," he stated dryly. He scrubbed at the sleeve of his robe, trying to brush away the dirt but only ended up grinding it in further. Abandoning his efforts, he looked back up to Enilroth. "To be clear—you thought _what_ was mine, exactly?"

Enilroth snorted. "What do you _think_?" he asked disdainfully. "The baby. The miracle Septim heir they keep going on about. Tell me again—what _are_ the requirements to become a Wizard?" He offered a hand and Ichabod took it, clambering awkwardly to his feet.

"Why would you think that?" Ichabod asked quickly. "You have to know—your sister and I aren't…we never…"

"I get it." Enilroth waved a hand dismissively, and Ichabod meekly hurried after him, his face still flaming. But as they finally reached the edge of the clearing, Enilroth turned back to him. "But for the record," he said, "I wouldn't have minded if you were. I might have actually preferred it."

Ichabod's mouth gaped open to protest, but Enilroth was taking the rest of the waterskins from him and calling out to Steffan as he strode across the clearing to where the Grandmaster had started a fire. And all Ichabod could do was slink after him, embarrassed and confused, and puzzle over the younger man's startling revelation.

* * *

Despite all the initial frenzy, Lily's labor dragged on. After Baurus yelled at them to stay back for about the fifth time, the Blades began assembling camp instead of standing awkwardly and watching from a safe distance—which they had been doing for the past several hours. Dinner consisted of stale bread and jerky, all of them awkwardly avoiding eye contact as they listened to what seemed to be a violent battle going on in one of the tents, judging from the shouts and the growls—and the near-constant stream of profanities.

Eventually, they all retreated into their tents in a half-hearted attempt to retire for the night. Ichabod was certain he wouldn't sleep a wink, but he must have, for some time in the night he jerked awake, startled from his sleep by voices right outside his tent.

"Baurus, I can't. I want to go back and lie down." He'd recognize Lily's voice anywhere, but hearing it sound so faint and strained was downright unnerving.

"You've got to keep walking," came Baurus' voice. "It'll help speed labor along. I think you've been lying down too long."

"Fuck you, Baurus," she spat.

"Fuck you, too," Baurus replied coolly. "Now come on. Let's keep moving." There was a pause, and then a sharp gasp, followed by a whimper. "You _can_ scream or yell or whatever, you know." The gentleness of the Captain's tone surprised Ichabod—merely moments ago, he'd been returning her curses. "Many women do."

"_I_ don't." The words were bold, but the voice that delivered them was weak, desperate. A sigh from Baurus.

"Come on," he said tiredly. "Just to the edge of the clearing, and then we'll head back." They shuffled off, and Ichabod settled back into a fitful state between dreaming and waking.

By the time dawn arrived, the Blades had all convened back out by the fire, grey-faced and bleary-eyed. Together, they brushed the frost from their gear and once again tried to avoid eye contact with each other. Although there was no official word from Baurus, they could all sense that the labor was drawing to end. Lily's earlier no-screaming plan had apparently gone out the window, and her cries echoed through the clearing, along with Baurus barking things like "_Push!_" and "Almost there—_now!_" and "Come on, Lily, you are _not_ giving up now!" Achille kept darting from the tent and running back, collecting supplies on his way—like the water that had been so imperative for them to fetch last night.

And then, they all heard it—Lily's cries died off and a new, shriller one took their place. Instantly, the Blades sprang to their feet, gathering into formation outside the tent, standing straight and at attention. The minutes ticked on. The anticipation was thick, tangible as it shuddered through the group. And then suddenly, Achille's head popped out. "Grandmaster." Steffan immediately stepped forward and disappeared into the tent, and the waiting continued.

Ichabod hung back behind the Blades, standing a little ways apart from Enilroth. The younger man's face had curled into a scowl, and unlike the Blades, he nervously shifted back and forth from one foot to another.

The tent's flap was drawn aside abruptly, and Steffan stepped out, followed by Baurus. But all eyes were fixed on the tiny bundle in the Grandmaster's arms. "Blades." Steffan's voice was solemn, but carried a note of triumph. "The Septim line lives again. I give you Bosriel Antoinetta, daughter of Martin Septim."

And there was the rasp of katanas being drawn abruptly from the sheaths, as all the Blades lifted their swords to the brightening sky. "All hail the Dragonborn!" the chorus of their voices rang out. "Hail Bosriel Septim! Hail!"

Their cheers died out and gave way laughter, sounds of celebration. Enilroth however, suddenly pushed forward, marching straight up to Steffan. "What about my sister?" he demanded. "Is she all right?"

The Grandmaster's lips pressed tightly together, and Ichabod noted the way he held Lily's daughter slightly closer to his chest. Baurus leaned in, and Ichabod felt himself inching closer. "She has lost a lot of blood," the Captain said carefully, "and on top of it, she's just plain exhausted." He glanced over his shoulder. "Achille is with her now, though. This is more his domain than mine at this point." There was a wry note to his tone, and it suddenly occurred to Ichabod how a rarely a Captain of the Blades must be forced to play midwife. "He'll take good care of her."

Of course he would. As the Blades' official healer, it would be his job to first attend to the Emperor in an emergency situation. He would have been trained at the Arcane University—would have been at the top of his class, no less. But Enilroth didn't seem reassured. And as he lifted his arms to cross them over his chest, the Grandmaster suddenly spoke. "Would you like to hold your niece?" he offered.

Enilroth froze. Ichabod half expected him to refuse, but very slowly, he began to nod. He reached out, and Steffan leaned forward to gently deposit the baby into his arms. Ichabod heard him draw in a sharp breath. "Is this okay?" he asked. "Am I doing it right?" The baby looked so out of place, dwarfed by his massive arms.

"Just relax," Baurus instructed. "She's not going to break." He looked even wearier than the rest of them, but Ichabod could almost swear he saw the corners of the stern Captain's mouth flickering upward. The tension gradually left Enilroth's shoulders, and he let out a nervous chuckle.

"I'm doing it," he said, a faint sense of wonder emanating from his words. Then the baby started to cry, and Enilroth tensed again as her high, ragged shrieks pierced the cold morning air. Baurus edged over to Enilroth's side and reached for the child.

"I'll take her back in," he said. "She's probably hungry." As he stepped toward the tent, however, Steffan turned to him.

"How's the situation in there?" he asked. "Will she be able to travel?"

Baurus hesitated. "Achille's the one to ask," he said. "She needs to rest, but we do need to get her out of the forest."

Steffan sighed. "Tell Achille we need to speed this up as quickly as possible," he instructed. "We have matters of great importance to discuss, and this is hardly the venue. Weynon Priory's closer, so I figure that's where we'll head for." He paused. "This child is Empress by right of blood—and we need to figure out our next move."

* * *

They set out the next morning, but travel was even slower than on the way there. They had decided not to backtrack to Silvenar, but instead to cut directly northeast back to Cyrodiil. It was shorter, Steffan claimed, but there was still the thick forest to cut through—and a low mountain range cutting between Valenwood and Elsweyr to scale.

Baurus rode with Lily, holding her in place in the saddle in front of him, even as she slumped against him blanched and sweating, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. Enilroth rode with his niece strapped to his chest, and Ichabod was charged with ponying Shadowmere along, seeing as Pamela was the only one of the horses the vicious mare didn't try to attack. They often had to stop and rest, and tensions were running high. On the third day, they had crossed into Elsweyr and had made camp for the night. Lily had passed out, and while Achille and Baurus quickly got her into one of the tents, the rest of them started setting up camp.

Enilroth had relinquished his hold on his niece for once as he helped scrounge for firewood, and one the Blades sat with the baby by the fire Ichabod was magically coaxing to life. He had just gotten the flames flickering along the kindling when another Blade dashed up.

"Ferrum," he said quietly, tersely. "We've spotted several figures to the southwest."

"Are they hostile?" Ferrum quickly rose to his feet. The other Blade shrugged.

"We don't know yet, but Grandmaster Steffan and Belisarius are heading out to engage them. We need you to come help cover them."

Ferrum nodded, turning to Ichabod. "I need to go deal with this. Here—take her." And before Ichabod could protest, the baby was being pushed into his arms.

"Wait, no, no, wait! Ferrum! I can't; I've never done this before!" But the Blade was already at the edge of the campsite.

"You'll be fine. Just support her head. And talk to her—Baurus says it's good for her." And two Blades hurried off.

Ichabod gingerly shifted the cocoon of blankets, glancing down at the tiny face peering out from it. Ferrum had said to talk to her—but about _what_? This was the closest he'd ever been to a baby before, he nervously realized—not to mention the first time he'd actually _held_ one. He uncomfortably cleared his throat.

"Hello, Bosriel," he murmured. "Pleased to meet you. My name is Ichabod." Miraculously, she wasn't crying as she stared at him, wide-eyed, and he began studying her face, suddenly intrigued. At only a few days old, it was uncanny how much she already looked like Lily. The height of her cheekbones, the set of her brow, the shape of her mouth, even the points of her ears—it was clear she would grow up to be the spitting image of her mother. But as he looked closer, he could see traces of Martin, too. It was more subtle, but it was there just the same, in the nose, and most obviously, in the eyes. The longer he stared at them, the more eerie the resemblance appeared. They were identical to her father's in shape, in set, in color—deep, silent pools of midnight.

"You're going to grow up so fast." That was something you said to children, right? It had always been a complaint of his mother's, at least: that he and Cielya were growing too old, too fast. At the thought of his mother, he snorted. Perhaps that was the reason he'd never been around babies: she may have lived life on her own terms, but his mother was born and raised in Alinor. She'd strolled through the streets of Chorrol as if she'd owned them—and half the city was terrified of her.

Bosriel, however, did not seem the slightest bit interested in what he had to say. Her eyelids flickered shut as she yawned, a tiny hand slipping free of the blankets to grasp at the air. Despite himself, he felt the corners of his mouth slip upward. Were all babies so _small_? He suddenly thought of Honditar, the nephew he'd never met. Maybe he'd put in a request for a leave and travel to Summerset Isle, after he'd secured his place a little better with the Guild. Or maybe he should invite Cielya and her family to visit him in Cyrodiil, when Honditar was older, of course. His smile widened slightly at the thought of Honditar and Bosriel playing together.

"Ah, there she is." Ichabod glanced up to see Baurus exiting the nearby tent. "Where's Ferrum?"

"He went to stand guard. Apparently they saw some strangers to the southwest. Steffan and Belisarius went to meet them." Ichabod returned his gaze to Bosriel. Her eyelids were growing heavy now, and she appeared to be drifting off to sleep.

But when he glanced back up, a faint expression of alarm had spread across Baurus' face. "Dammit," he muttered. He shook his head. "Go ahead and take her in. I'll go see what this is about." He headed off in the same direction as Ferrum, and Ichabod tentatively stood, but Bosriel miraculously remained asleep as he made his way over to the tent.

Inside, he blinked as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, but he heard the rustling as a figure in the bedroll there in the corner sat up. "Ichabod?" Lily asked hoarsely.

"It's me." Suddenly, his throat felt very dry.

"Is that my daughter you've got with you?" He could just make her out now, her hair hanging loose and tousled about her shoulders. He'd never seen it down before, he realized. And as he eyed the simple tunic she wore, it also occurred to him that he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her without her enormous black robes—or the armor of Kvatch.

"It is." He smiled faintly as he crouched down beside her and transferred the bundle into her waiting arms. Bosriel didn't stir, even as Lily shifted over and lay down, positioning her daughter beside her.

There was a sound of a throat being cleared, and Ichabod jumped, turning to see Achille standing there watching. He hadn't even noticed the healer was in the tent. "I'm going to give the two of you a moment alone. I'll be right outside if you need me."

"Thank you, Achille," Lily murmured as the healer slipped out of the tent. As the flap settled back down, once again cloaking the tent in darkness, she turned to Ichabod. "So," she said. "You came along to drag me back to Cloud Ruler."

"That wasn't the reason," he protested, but he sensed that wasn't the real question she was asking. "Are you angry?"

"No," she sighed, smoothing back her daughter's few, wispy strands of hair. "Just curious, I suppose."

"I was worried," he blurted out. It was entirely the truth. "And I just wondered…well, that is to say, I thought maybe…"

Lily sighed again. "Spit it out," she said wearily.

"I don't understand _why_." His gaze bored into hers, and surprisingly, she met it unflinchingly. "After what happened on the Waterfront," she stiffened slightly at that, "I mean, it was a bad situation. I know you didn't want to go, but if you were going to escape, why do so that far into things? Wouldn't it have been…easier earlier on?" He could feel his face flushing. He wasn't even entirely sure what he was trying to ask.

Lily's eyes had slipped shut. "Do you really want me to answer that question?" she asked quietly.

Doubt suddenly surged up in him, but he stoically nodded. "I do."

"At Cloud Ruler," she began, "I had plenty of time to think. Nothing to do _but_ think, actually. And the closer I got to becoming a parent myself, the more I thought about my own."

Ichabod pursed his lips. "Enilroth told me about your father," he said slowly.

"Did he, now?" Her voice was groggy with exhaustion, magicka and healing potions, but he recognized the underlying challenge and proceeded with caution.

"He didn't go into any details," he quickly elaborated. "Just about cult. And that your family was in danger."

Lily slowly exhaled. "Well, then," she said. "At least I don't have to explain that part, I suppose." Her gaze suddenly flashed up to his. "But after months of sitting and thinking, I finally realized it. I am my father."

"That's not true," he instantly countered, but she feebly raised a hand in protest.

"No, I don't mean the Daedra worship or the botched rebellion." She rolled her eyes. "I'm talking about deep, bitter grudges. Obsessive tendencies. A downright volatile temper." She sighed. "I never realized how much he and I were alike," she whispered. "And then this little one started kicking, and I began to wonder. Could I reach the point he did? Would I ever go so far as to harm my own child?" She bit her lip, eyes fastened on her sleeping daughter.

"And so I had to understand," she continued. "I had to know what would mean so much to him that he would go that far. So I came home." A faint smile drifted across her face. "My family prides ourselves on being Valenwood Bosmer, but we've never kept the traditional ways. So I tried it for myself." She chuckled. "In truth, I'm not very good at it. But I did learn to feel _him_."

Ichabod frowned. "Who?" he asked warily. And that little smile returned to her face.

"Y'ffre." She laughed. "I think it was something I was always aware of, but never really understood. He's in the wind. In the starlight. In the very trees themselves." Ichabod certainly didn't understand, but her smile was fading.

"I'm afraid," she suddenly admitted. "I worry about what I'm capable of. I don't trust myself with her." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Part of me wishes the Blades would take her from me. Raise her in secret, keep me away from her." Her pained confession was heavy with anguish, and Ichabod felt something in his chest twist.

"A matter of months ago you didn't think you'd even be able to go through with the birth." Ichabod's own voice had gone low. "And would you be so worried about keeping her safe if you didn't love her?"

"I guess not," she whispered, but they both started as the tent flap was abruptly drawn aside.

"Everyone's back now. And all is well," Achille announced. "But Lily needs to rest. They both do." He gave a meaningful glance in Ichabod's direction, which he correctly interpreted as his cue to leave.

"Sleep well, then." He stood and made his way to the tent's entrance. "I'll see you later."

"Thank you, Ichabod," she said quickly. She glanced away, and he knew she wasn't referring to the well wishes for her rest.

"Of course." He smiled briefly, and stepped back out into the fading dusk.

* * *

They arrived at Weynon Priory several days later, and Baurus and Achille immediately carried Lily upstairs to rest, Enilroth following with Bosriel. They needed to discuss their next course of action, Steffan kept saying, but they would wait until Lily could move about on her own.

So Ichabod made his way to Chorrol. Steffan had given him permission to attend the "council," given his "proven loyalty" to Bosriel's "predecessor." Personally, Ichabod thought the Grandmaster was making too great a deal out of the entire situation, but he simply thanked Steffan and headed to his father's house.

But unlived in, it had grown dank and stuffy, a thick layer of dust coating every exposed surface. So instead, he went into the city to visit his parents' graves. It was a concept he'd never grow used to, he mused as he hunched against the bitter wind, the idea that his parents had been reduced a couple of stones protruding from the faded grass. He thought of Lily speaking of Y'ffre—who he knew to be the patron spirit of the forest—and suddenly he decided he liked that idea much better. That although an Altmer, perhaps Honditar's spirit had joined the forest he'd loved so much, that his father now spoke through the wind, resided in the trees. And that his mother was there in every eye-roll he'd ever directed at a fellow mage's ignorance, every long-suffering sigh. He smiled—and then realized how utterly mad he sounded, even in his own thoughts. And so he trudged out of the graveyard, in search of some living companionship.

When he entered Northern Goods and Trade, Seed-Neeus glanced up and stared vaguely at him for a moment. Then her eyes brightened, and she let out a small cry. "Ichabod? Nine Divines, it _is_ you!" She hurried forward and immediately wrapped him in a hug.

"It's been too long," he said with a smile as he pulled away. She was thinner than he remembered, her scales more faded.

"Look at you, all grown up! Full-fledged mage and everything!" She smiled, and he instantly blushed. He was a Wizard of the Mages Guild—but leave it to Seed-Neeus to make him feel like an awkward, bumbling teenager again. His embarrassment went from mild to blazing, however, when he heard the sound of low, hissing laughter.

"Well, well, well. Who's this?" a voice asked from the corner, and Ichabod irritably glanced over to see smirking Argonian in leather armor reclined on a bench, his boots propped on a nearby table. Seed-Neeus made a _tsk_-ing sound.

"Amusei, have some manners," she snapped. "This is Ichabod. He went to school with Dar-Ma, and he's a very dear friend. And for the last time, _get your feet off that table_!" She hurried over and gave his legs a shove, and he reluctantly settled them back to the floor. Seed-Neeus turned back to Ichabod. "Please excuse Amusei," she said dryly. "I don't know _why_ my daughter insists on keeping him around."

"Because he's a dear once you get past the whole tough act," a familiar voice cut in brightly. "Right, love?"

"Hey, now," Amusei protested, but the rest of his words were drowned out by Dar-Ma's squeal.

"_Ichabod!_ You're here, you're really here!" And Dar-Ma hurtled toward him and threw her arms around him. Or arm, rather—because her other one clutched a tiny child. She seemed aware of this fact, as she quickly pulled away. "You've met Amusei, I see," she said wryly, casting a pointed look at the snickering man in the corner, "but I'd like to introduce you to Deerkaza!" She triumphantly indicated toward her son.

Over dinner, she filled him in on the missing details. "We met at the start of the Crisis," she explained, smiling over at Amusei. "The day after Kvatch was attacked, actually." Her demeanor sobered at the mention of the horrific event, but brightened again as she continued her story. "…And then he said, 'I know I don't have much, but I will love this child until my last breath. And if you'll let me, I'll love you the same,'" she finally finished as they began clearing the dishes.

"I don't think I put it as well as all that," Amusei objected, clearly embarrassed. But he returned the knowing smile Dar-Ma cast at him just the same. Despite his rough exterior, it was obvious he cared deeply for the both of them. The look of tenderness that came across his face as he held his son said as much.

"I still can't believe Lily has a child now, too," Dar-Ma sighed as she sat back down. "Look at us—the old trio all grown up." Her smile was filled with memory, and Ichabod was once again lost in the joy and promise of that long-ago autumn.

"Now all that's left is for you to have one of your own, Ichabod," Amusei cut in jokingly. Ichabod grimaced.

"I'm not so sure_ that_ will be in the cards for quite some time," he said dryly, and Dar-Ma and Amusei burst into laughter. Funny, though—his whole life, when he'd pictured his future, he's always imagined himself as a powerful mage, in the constant pursuit of skill and knowledge. But as he recalled sitting there by the campfire cradling Bosriel, he could almost—_almost_, just barely—picture himself as a father.

* * *

The so-called council took place two days later, all of them crammed around the circular table in the kitchen of the Weynon House. Several more Blades had arrived from Cloud Ruler Temple, and chairs were jammed in wherever their occupants could find space. The Septim in question lay sleeping in an upstairs bedroom; the Blades, as per usual, appeared serious and official, and Enilroth, also as per usual, appeared wary. But Lily, on the other hand, had changed.

It wasn't an obvious change; in fact, unless one knew her well, it was probably imperceptible. But as Ichabod watched her, no hint of the terrified, unsure woman who'd confessed her darkest secrets to him remained. The air about her had shifted, in a way Ichabod could only describe as ironclad.

"Blades," Steffan began, "We have gathered here today to discuss the matter of Bosriel Septim. After the death of Martin Septim eight months ago, it was believed that the Septim line had ended. As of a week ago, this is no longer case. The Imperial Throne falls to Bosriel Septim by right of blood—and as her Blades, it falls to us to decide how to best put her on it."

One of the Blades shifted forward. "The first problem I see is the Amulet of Kings," he said slowly. "As we all know, Martin shattered it—and without it, I don't see how we're going to prove Bosriel is an heir of the Blood. They weren't married. She wasn't born in the Imperial Palace. As far as the Elder Council is concerned, we could be trying to stage a coup."

"The Elder Council is in turmoil right now," another—who Ichabod recognized as Belisarius—added in agreement. "Chancellor Ocato has managed to hold things together, but there are many power dynamics at play—and much distrust. Our objective is to unite the Empire, not tear it further apart."

"Which is exactly why we need the Empress to be crowned," Ferrum cut in. "It's perfect, really. Ocato already has their trust, so why not name him Regent? I'm sure he would agree to mentor Bosriel, and when she's old enough, it will be a near-seamless transition."

"But there's still the matter of proving she's the Septim heir in the first place," someone objected. "We can't just waltz up to White Gold Tower and demand they accept her claim to the throne."

"But isn't that exactly what we did with Martin?" Achille remarked dryly. There was a brief silence.

"Not exactly." Steffan leaned forward. "Martin had the Amulet."

"But they had already accepted his claim before they saw it," a Blade protested. "I was there, you know. There was no deliberating, no vote. Martin walked in, and Ocato named him Emperor. Simple as that."

"Which brings us to my second point," Steffan continued. "Martin also had Jauffre." His gaze travelled around the table. "Jauffre had been Grandmaster for a long time. He was influential, and had many friends on the Elder Council. It was common knowledge that his word was good. I, on the other hand, am new to my position. Many will see that as a sign of unrest within the Blades, which won't help our case."

"Oh, come on, does that really matter?" someone snapped impatiently. "One look at her and it's clear she's a Septim."

"And there's the matter of the Champion. Half of Cyrodiil's armed forces saw them kiss on the battlefield that day—not to mention just about all of Bruma. It's not as though they were a secret," someone pointed out. "Wouldn't this be an obvious possibility—if not a logical next step?"

Everything head in the room turned in that direction, and there was silence around the table. "That is an excellent point," Steffan said thoughtfully, slowly beginning to nod.

"So—Lily goes to the Elder Council and tells them Bosriel is the daughter of her and Martin?" someone clarified.

"It's not a _good_ plan, per se," a Blade remarked. "But it's…not a bad one either?"

"Assuming—and this is a big assumption—that all those soldiers go back and tell their counts and countesses 'Yes! The Champion and Martin Septim were _absolutely_ involved, so if she shows up a matter of months later with a child _of course_ it's his,' and assuming they not only believe it, but consider it to be _good_ news…" Belisarius shook his head. "It's not going to be enough to tip a Council vote in her favor."

"Well, my uncle is the jarl of Falkreath," another Blade spoke up. "He claims he has the High King's ear, too. That's _something_."

"That mercenary in Bruma—didn't he say he was House Dres?"

"I was stationed in Elsweyr back in my early years. I may still hold some sway in the Riverhold courts."

One by one, the Blades all began chiming in, claiming some connection somewhere that could help secure Bosriel's claim.

"Thank you." A new voice rang out above the others. "Thank you all very much." The noise died down as Lily rose to her feet. "I appreciate the loyalty you have for my daughter, as well as that which you once held toward her father. However, this is all unnecessary. My daughter will not be claiming any throne." And she sat down. Dead silence followed. Out of the corner of his eye, Ichabod saw Enilroth cast a tiny smile in his sister's direction.

"Lily." Steffan's tone was careful. "Bosriel is the rightful heir to the throne. The _only_ heir, in fact. It's not only her birthright—it's her _duty_, in accordance with the Covenant."

But Lily only smiled—a cold smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Technically, the Covenant is null and void now," she said calmly. "Therefore, my daughter has no _duty_. And as for her so-called birthright…" She shrugged. "Martin was a priest. I sell rocks." Enilroth made a sudden choking sound, but when Ichabod glanced in his direction, his eyes were dancing. "We're simple people. Our daughter will be as well. I saw what the burden of being Emperor did to him, and I wish better for our daughter. I know he'd feel the same."

"Lily, she is the _only one_ who can continue the Septim line, the only one who has any claim _at all_ to the title of Empress. Do you not understand that?" Steffan's voice was growing harsh. "The Empire _needs_ her, needs to be able to _unite_ under her."

"Things are _bad_ with the Elder Council, Lily, the entire Empire is falling apart."

"There have even been threats of secession."

"Do you not understand?"

"If civil war breaks out, it will be long and bloody."

"The Empire doesn't need any more chaos!"

"Don't the people deserve some peace? Be reasonable!"

"How can you be so selfish?"

"The Septim line must continue!"

"Why don't you understand?"

"She's right, you know." That statement turned heads. The angry barrage died down as Baurus, who had been surprisingly silent so far, rose to his feet as well.

"She's right," he repeated. He gazed around at his Knight Brothers and Sisters. "There was something Ferrum said earlier that caught my attention," he continued. "About Ocato becoming Regent and there being a—how did you put it?—a "seamless transition" when Bosriel would finally come of age and take power. Well, _that_, ladies and gentlemen, is _exactly_ what we should be afraid of."

"Don't you see it?" he asked when he was met with silence. "The single member of the royal family left alive is an infant. We would do what we could, of course, but we don't sit on the Elder Council, and as Steffan pointed out, our influence there is weak. She'd be _preyed_ upon by underfeeders, seeking to take power for themselves. Politics are a game, and you have to know how to play it. Having the Empress grow up like that, though—she'd never even have a _chance_ to learn. This wouldn't unite the Empire; it'd fracture it further. She'd become a damned puppet, pulled in too many directions."

"Baurus," someone sighed, "the _sole purpose_ of our order is to see to the continuation of the Septim line."

Baurus snorted. "If you want to be exact, the sole purpose of our order is to slay dragons." He was met with eye-rolls, but he continued. "And following their disappearance," he raised his voice as the protests became vocal, "our _new_ purpose became to protect the Dragonborn. _Vahlok Dovahkiin_." This seemed to have a sobering effect. The Blades fell silent, dropping their gazes.

"When did we become such political animals?" Baurus pressed after several moments had passed. "Hmm? Why does this matter so much to us? The Septim dynasty ended as the Gates were sealed. Things have changed. We can all agree Ocato's done a fine job holding things together—why is that going to change if Bosriel doesn't secure the throne? In just over a month, a new era will officially begin. Let the past be the past, and the future the future. Politics be damned. The only thing we should be concerned with is making sure no harm comes to that little girl upstairs." He then turned to Lily. "I support your decision fully. No matter the capacity in which it is needed, my sword is your daughter's." Lily nodded silently, and for a moment, a quiver of emotion broke through her iron mask.

"Baurus is right." Steffan finally spoke. "We should be ashamed of ourselves." He also stood. "No dynasty can last forever. Perhaps the Septims' has run its course. But there were Dragonborn long before Tiber, and there will be long after Bosriel. Our objective is protection, not ambition." He, too, turned to Lily. "My sword is your daughter's as well."

A ripple of agreement slowly began to spread through the Blades, a murmur of repetition. "Well, then." Steffan cleared his throat. "I guess that settles that."

* * *

After the Blades had filed out of the tiny kitchen, Ichabod began trying to locate Lily. She had disappeared, but he made his way up to the tiny bedroom where Bosriel had been napping. When he knocked on the door, however, it opened only a sliver of the way, and he caught sight of one of Enilroth's deep green eyes peering out. "Just a minute," he said. And then the door was slammed shut in his face.

He waited patiently as the minutes ticked on, sometimes almost catching a murmur of voices. Then finally, the door creaked open and Enilroth slipped out, closing it quietly behind him. In the narrow little hall, he looked up at Ichabod apologetically.

"She's not seeing visitors right now," he said sheepishly. However, he didn't meet Ichabod's eyes as he spoke the words, and his face wore an expression of quiet sympathy. Something inside Ichabod's chest sagged, and he let out a long breath.

"Meaning she's not seeing _me_." He gave a short mirthless laugh. "Of course." Why was it _always_ this way with her?

"I'm sorry." Enilroth offered a terse smile, then glanced over his shoulder and leaned in close. "Look, I don't know what exactly the situation is here," he said in a low voice. "But I do know my sister. And she's spooked. Couldn't say by _what_, exactly, but something has her running scared." And at that, Ichabod began to laugh—merrily, as though Enilroth had just told him the funniest joke in the world. He stifled his chuckles only when he realized Enilroth was staring at him with an expression of mild shock.

"Enilroth," he said deliberately, "In the five years I've known your sister, there has _never_ been a point at which she's _not_ running scared." Enilroth paused for a moment as though thinking, then nodded.

"That's fair," he said. "And normally, I'd agree with you. The woman is an island. An island that draws all the storms in from the sea and drags the mainland into them along with her." It wasn't the _worst_ analogy he'd ever heard—Antus Odiil had been a nice kid, but not very bright—but it was far, far from the best. Especially considering that it made no literal sense. Seeing his confusion, Enilroth rolled his eyes. "Okay, let me put it this way. My sister has her secrets. No denying that. And she has a way of causing real shitstorms of trouble, but doesn't seem to grasp the fact that other people get dragged into it, too." Ichabod grimaced.

"Truer words were never spoke," he muttered.

"But this time, something's different," Enilroth continued. "Not like, 'I'm going to stay up hysterically crying and keeping everyone awake the whole damn night because I'm freaking out about my Alteration test,' or 'Oh, I'm going to suddenly appear out of the blue after five years and turn the whole family upside down,' or even 'Hey Enilroth, I'm pregnant and you better keep it a secret from Mother. Oh, and by the way, the dead Emperor is the father!' And let me remind you, I didn't even know about that last part until like two weeks ago." He rolled his eyes, clearly still bitter, and Ichabod almost felt a twinge of a smile. Almost. "No, this time, it's more along the lines of, 'A Daedra invaded Nirn, and I had to sit back and watch the Emperor I spent a year protecting sacrifice himself.' Or 'Father showed up and beat the living daylights out of us all. Again.'" Despite himself, Ichabod gave a slight shudder. "I don't think she got herself into this one. Something's wrong, but she won't talk to me."

Ichabod had fastened his gaze securely on the closed door. "Tell me something, Enilroth," he said flatly. "Her name isn't really Lily, is it?" He'd heard the nickname the younger man had called her by, the one that didn't make any sense.

Enilroth shook his head. "It's Elbereth," he said. He grimaced slightly. "It's kind of silly. Naming your kids Elbereth and Enilroth? Mother thought they'd 'go together' or something." He snorted. "No, I guess she started going by Lily at some point around the time she was eighteen. It's all I've heard anyone call her, so…" He shrugged. _When she was eighteen. Five years ago. _The length of time that he'd known her—and that she'd apparently been separated from her family. _Hard times. It happens to the best of us…_

Ichabod closed his eyes. "Enilroth?" he asked wearily.

"Hmm?"

"What in Oblivion happened five years ago?" He cracked open his eyes, but Enilroth wore a guarded expression.

"Like I said, my sister has her secrets," he said carefully. "And I'd be a pretty terrible brother if I went around spilling them to anyone who asked." He paused. "Even if she _did_ bring it entirely on herself," he mumbled, almost as an afterthought. "But seriously." He straightened up. "If you want to know about my sister, the best way to find out is to ask her yourself." He glanced over his shoulder at the door. "'Course I can't guarantee she'll tell you…"

"…or that she'll even talk to me in the first place," Ichabod finished irritably. He pushed away from the wall he'd been leaning up against and shot one last long, heated glare at the door. Then he turned to Enilroth. "I'm going back to the Arcane University," he announced. "If your sister asks, I have a life. And I'm no longer interested in her games." He turned on his heel and stalked down the hallway without another word.

* * *

**A/N: So I'm fairly certain I butchered that bit of dragon language, but oh well. Got any questions about how I translated it? You know what to do :)**


	56. Chapter 53: The Price to Pay

**A/N: Well folks, here it is. The last "official" chapter of Shriller. We still have an epilogue after this, but for all intents and purposes, this is pretty much the end. I'll try to get that posted in the next week, but I'm also in the process finishing up my thesis, so we'll have to see. I think it's so funny, though: that the two most time-consuming projects I've ever invested myself in are coming to a close around the same time. I hope you all enjoy this chapter, because I really did work hard on it. I've always found endings difficult; by the time they roll around, the bar has been set, so there's just this need to simultaneously surpass it and wrap things up in a satisfying way. I hope this accomplishes that :)**

* * *

Chapter 53: The Price to Pay

_Ichabod_

The first year of the Fourth Era dawned bloody for the Mages Guild. When the New Life fireworks died away, the silence from the Bruma guildhall was deafening. Having somehow become the first one Arch-Mage Traven went to at any sign of trouble, Ichabod was sent to lead the investigating party. The undisturbed snow on the steps was the first clue that something was wrong; the next was far less subtle.

The building had been gutted: bookshelves toppled, doors blasted from their hinges, furniture broken to sticks and alchemy apparatuses shattered, piles of debris scattered across the floor. But worst of all was the fire damage: charred rubble, scorched floors, soot-streaked walls. The air was still heavy with ash, and for a brief moment, Ichabod nearly saw the gates of Oblivion rising up before him as he inhaled. The surprise at the shiver of terror that followed nearly overwhelmed the fear itself, but he forced himself to press on, grey-faced and trembling.

In the basement, though, he found his courage, in the face of the worst sight of them all. The blackened, mangled corpses had all been laid out in a gruesome display, the smell of death suffocating as they choked on it. But the lone survivor trembling in the corner was in far worse shape. "They came in the night," he managed hoarsely. "I was invisible; they marched right past me, but the others…the others…" His voice trailed off in an agonized moan. "I wanted to help…I tried, but they were all dead…oh Nine Divines, they were dead, and I didn't know what else to do for them…"

His heart was sticking to his ribs, but swallowing hard, Ichabod found his voice. "Martina, Piliar, get him out of here," he murmured. The illusionist and the healer stepped forward, still visibly shaken, but their relief at having something to do was obvious. Piliar began inspecting for visible injuries, while Martina raised her hand to his head and whispered an incantation. There was a brief green glow, and the surviving mage stopped trembling. Martina then crouched to help Piliar heave him to his feet.

"Where should we take him?" Piliar asked quietly. Ichabod closed his eyes.

"Jerall View Inn," he answered after a moment's pause. He fumbled under his cloak and withdrew a coin purse. "Here. Use this for a room. Attend to him there, and we'll see to this mess." And as they escorted him up the stairs, he turned to the rest of the mages. "Arlowe, try to examine the bodies. See if there's anything unusual about them. Boderi, Afer, the two of you search down here. Bugharz, Amelie and I will search upstairs."

"Search for _what_, exactly?" one of the mages asked.

"Anything." Ichabod shook his head. "Anything that may give us some clue as to who did this." And when they finally returned the Imperial City four days later, they had their answer. The survivor—J'skar—had recovered sufficiently to tell them about the necromancers that had stormed the guildhall. An amulet Boderi had discovered in a pile of rubble further confirmed his story.

For the first month, they found themselves stuck on a trail of dead ends and false leads. But then came the night Raminus Polus was attacked. When the man came to, he revealed the stunning truth about his assailant: that she was a Council member—Caranya had betrayed them all. And the hunt was on. Disturbing news came from Cheydinhal soon afterward, and they had another suspect. The guildhall head had disappeared, and black soul gems had been discovered in his quarters. That was the puzzle piece they needed.

On the anniversary of Mehrunes Dagon's defeat, apparently people gathered in the streets from all over Tamriel, crowding into the Temple of the One to pay homage to Martin's sacrifice. Ichabod did not see it for himself—instead, he paid his respects to his old friend with a swig of cheap wine as he crouched by a campfire in the Valus Mountains, waiting to observe a necromancer ritual. And when the ritual finally began, the battlemages stormed in. The fighting was short and brutal, but in the end, the necromancers all fell. They were then free to enter and investigate the cave. And as it turned out, the information discovered that day was crucial—the final piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. It was funny, how what would turn out to be the Guild's salvation would occur on the same date all of Tamriel's had come. There was something to be said for patterns.

Only a few short weeks later, Ichabod found himself leading the final charge. The battlemages fell into place outside the ruin that served as the necromancers' base. They had intercepted plans to march on the Skingrad guildhall—but the necromancers would leave the ruin only to walk straight into a trap.

This fight, however, turned out to be much worse than the previous ambush. Both sides were evenly matched in terms of numbers and power, and it quickly began turning into a bloodbath. Ichabod had let off several powerful destruction spells before he noticed the figure fleeing back into the ruins. Even from a distance, he recognized it, gritting his teeth at the sight. Falcar. Former head of the Cheydinhal guildhall—and leader of the necromancer insurgence.

Blasting his way past several zombies, Ichabod sprinted after him. It was dark inside the ruin, but his adrenaline-heightened senses picked up the scuff of the man's expensive shoes on the floor ahead of him. In the end, he cornered him in one of the chambers, and the duel began. Zombies and wraiths met Dremora and atronachs in furious battle, while their creators slung bolts of flame, frost and electricity amongst them. But in the end, it was his dagger—the same one Honditar had given him for his birthday all those years ago—that ended Falcar's life. A little over a year ago, he hadn't even known how to use it, and now, it had eliminated the Mages Guild's greatest threat. There was something to be said for patterns, he thought as he wiped it clean, Thalfin's calls for him echoing through the ruin—but there was also something to be said for breaking them.

* * *

The rhythm of Pamela's hooves on the Black Road mirrored the steady tempo of his own heart. His hands had gone slick with sweat, slipping on the reins, and he kept irritably wiping them on the fabric of his robe, only to cringe when he once again touched the damp leather. It'd taken months, but he'd finally worked up the courage, finally come to understand the hypocrisy of his own words. If he was tired of her games, he'd realized, the only solution was to stop playing them. So there he was, riding for Weynon Priory.

Enilroth, surprisingly, had remained in contact with him; the young smith would periodically send him letters, which Ichabod always made a point of returning. Most of them simply detailed various happenings of his life—which Ichabod found himself surprisingly interested in. His apprenticeship was nearing its end, and he already had several clients of his own, including a respected member of the Fighters Guild. A former lover of his had been arrested after she and her friends had tried to seduce and rob a member of the Anvil Guard (which in reality probably wasn't as funny as Ichabod found it). But most notably, although he had only mentioned it in passing, Lily and Bosriel had stayed at Weynon Priory, under the watchful eyes of the Blades. And so he was on his way there, a harsh determination settling over him. One way or another, this would end today.

The Priory appeared surprisingly vacant as he rode up, the empty courtyard awash with the light of the late summer afternoon. He slid off of Pamela, looping her reins over her head and leading her forward. The shepherd didn't appear to be anywhere in sight, so he would just get her some water before stabling her and heading inside. He made his way around the far edge of the well, where the rope to the bucket was secured. But as he fumbled with the knot, he heard the sound of the Priory house door, and footsteps against the paving stones.

He glanced up, and his stomach turned over—there she was. She quietly strode toward the well, eyes downcast, but then she looked up and paused as she caught sight of him. "Ichabod?" Her brow furrowed as her eyes squinted slightly.

"It's me." He inhaled as he broke away from the well, taking a few tentative steps toward her. She shifted the jug she carried from one arm to the other as she broke eye contact.

"What are you doing here?" she asked quietly. She set the jug at the base of the well and took over unraveling the knot—albeit far more deftly. Time to be bold. No more games.

"I came to see you." He eyed her carefully as she lowered the bucket into the water. Pregnancy really had done her good, he noted; it had eased the lines of her face somewhat, filled out the hollows of her cheeks. The loose gown she wore disguised any remaining puffiness from pregnancy, but it left her arms bare, and he noted the rippling of muscle along them as she hauled the bucket up. It was clear she was training again, and he took some small satisfaction in that fact. "Lily, we need to talk."

She sighed, bracing the jug against the well as she filled it. "I figured." She set the jug back down and secured the bucket before turning to face him, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned back against the well. "So talk."

He blinked, a sudden rush of nerves returning, but he forced himself to remain calm. "You wouldn't speak to me," he said. "Enilroth said you didn't even want to see me." There was no reply, and he felt a quick burst of frustration. "Lily, tell me the truth—are you _that_ angry with me? Have I done something to offend you, because if so, I truly am unaware."

She slowly exhaled. "It's complicated," she said quickly, refusing to meet his gaze.

"And I wouldn't understand?" He mimicked her posture. "Allow me to be incredibly pretentious here for a moment, and point out that I understand quite a lot." She rolled her eyes.

"Fine," she muttered. Her gaze suddenly locked onto his, and there was something defiant in her expression. "You know, of course, that I was once infected with vampirism." He nodded, unsure of where this was going. "I was only a vampire for a couple months," she continued, "but during that time I began to experience…" She hesitated, and he frowned. "Dreams." She shrugged, and quickly glanced away again.

"Dreams?" His frown became perplexed, and she grimaced, clearly uncomfortable.

"Maybe 'visions' would be a more accurate term." Her face had flushed, he noticed. "At first, they were just memories. Shadows of my experiences, of people I knew, various facets of my life. Fairly normal, I suppose, but incredibly vivid."

"Okay," he said vaguely, somehow more confused than ever.

"But then they changed." Her lips pressed in a thin line. "And I began to see glimpses of the future." He could feel his features morphing into a doubtful frown, but she was still speaking. "The vampire who mentored me assured me they were nothing to worry about, that dreams were common for vampires, but prophetic abilities weren't…"

"Hold on for a second," he said, something she had said resonating with him. "Your _mentor_?" Anger suddenly flared behind her eyes as she drew herself up to full height.

"Yes," she snapped. "He taught me about my powers and kept me from killing everyone around me while I was learning to control my thirst. Is that really such a difficult concept?" It wasn't, he supposed, but something about it still nagged at him, even as he meekly settled down and allowed her to continue. "But then he looked into it, and found that there _were_ vampires who had experienced instances of seeing the future. And given my connection to the Emperor…" She pursed her lips, and he frowned. "Everyone knew about his…abilities. Vicente said I probably _was_ catching glimpses of what was to come, after all." It suddenly dawned on him that she was talking about Uriel—not Martin.

"The visions stopped when I was cured," she continued, "but then they started to come true." He was officially ill at ease now, and not entirely certain she hadn't lost her mind. "Granted, real events are never entirely true to what I see. It's more along the lines of common themes, specific images. The context, however, is fairly fluid."

"Lily," he said carefully. "Why exactly are you telling me all of this?" Her stoic expression wavered slightly.

"Because they started again when I was pregnant." Her voice was faint, little more than a whisper. "At first I thought I was just having nightmares because of," she swallowed hard, "because of the Crisis, but there was something different about them. Something familiar. And then I began seeing glimpses of the future once again."

Ichabod took a deep breath. "The Guild has done much research on prophecy," he said carefully. "The Elder Scrolls, indisputably, contain future knowledge, but there's been little evidence of such abilities among the general population…" He trailed off, however, as he noticed Lily's face contorting with fury.

"You think I'm imagining it?" she asked harshly. She let out a sharp bark of laughter. "There's a price to pay when you birth a Septim bastard, Ichabod. Do you know what it's like to have dragonblood bubbling inside you for months on end?" She advanced toward him, hands balled into fists at her sides. "Did you know that the Blades knew I was pregnant for about as long as Marisa had? Do you know why they didn't come to collect me right away?" Her voice was rising. "Because they were interviewing _every single_ person they thought I could have slept with in the months prior. They didn't think she _could_ be Martin's. Did you know it took Caula Voria a _decade _to carry a child to term? The dragonblood is its _own entity_, Ichabod, and it _fights_ you. It fights every _fiber _of your being."

Just then, the Priory house door creaked open, and a little white-haired woman stuck her head out. "Elbereth?" she asked sharply. "What's all this noise out here?" Lily didn't budge, her eyes firmly fastened on Ichabod.

"It's fine, Melisande." When there was no response, she glanced over her shoulder. "You can go back inside," she said pointedly. Ichabod could have sworn he saw the woman actually roll her eyes, but she slowly withdrew and closed the door—but not before casting a wary glance at Ichabod.

Lily sighed as she turned back to him. "See what I mean?" She smiled wryly, but her voice had softened. "She means well, of course. And although she gets under my skin," here, she gritted her teeth slightly, "I don't know what I'd do without her. Besides, my mother's life is in Anvil, and I think it's good for Bosriel to grow up around at least one of her grandmothers." She paused. "Enilroth says the two of you write to each other. Did he tell you about that? When our mother found out? I don't think she would have forgiven me if she didn't love Bosriel so much." She shuddered slightly, but Ichabod wasn't even paying attention.

"Wait," he half-whispered urgently. "That woman in there—that's _Martin's mother?_" His eyes had gone wide, darting to the house window where the curtains had just shifted slightly. Lily nodded.

"Believe it or not, she's actually the one who cured my vampirism." She wore a faraway expression. "And if you still have doubts, she suffers from the visions too." She smiled sadly. "She saw our paths cross before I came to her the first time, and once I was cured, she thought that would be the extent of it. It was only when the Crisis got underway that she saw it was only the beginning." And to Ichabod's surprise, her eyes grew misty. "Do you see what I mean? That's how it works. You don't get the whole picture—just a few fragmented details. And I don't know if I'm seeing things clearly, or if it's enough information to go off of, or even if I have any power to change things—but I have to try. I have to."

Ichabod wasn't sure if he understood—or even that she was entirely sane. But somehow, it was making sense; her story was falling into place. "Change _what_, exactly?" he asked quietly.

Lily blinked, her expression clearing as she lifted her chin. "It was the day we crossed back into Cyrodiil," she said. "I saw my daughter, fully grown, surrounded by others. I saw them pledge their loyalty. But then, I saw her betrayed. I saw my daughter, dead on the floor of the Elder Council Chamber." Her voice was raw, and Ichabod stood in stunned silence.

"That was why you didn't want her to take the throne," he said finally. Lily nodded.

"Like I said, things shift around in reality. The details don't always align." She shook her head. "Melisande's been an incredible help, though. We sit down, and she tells me about her visions. What she saw, and what happened. Fifty years worth of them. We try to see the patterns. Try to find the key to it all." Her voice suddenly grew hard. "But regardless, I've at least saved my daughter from _that _particular fate."

Ichabod found himself slowly beginning to nod. "Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked.

Lily shook her head. "No," she muttered. "We just try to take it one day at a time. Melisande and I are doing what we can, the Blades are watchful, and so far…" she shrugged. "All's been well." She offered a tentative smile. "Does that answer your question?"

Ichabod's heart slightly increased in tempo. "It does," he said, "but that's not the real reason I came here today." Lily's smile disappeared.

"Oh?" she asked, and her voice sharpened ever so slightly. "What do you need, then?"

Ichabod's heart was slamming against his ribcage now, and he could feel the blood zinging through his veins. "There's something I needed to tell you," he began. "Something I've wanted to say for quite a while. And I don't think I even realized it myself, at first, but then it was never the right time. And maybe it still isn't—maybe it will _never_ be—but I need you to know." She was watching him, a blank expression on her face. He swallowed hard, and adrenaline surged. This was it. Now or never. _Just say it_. "I'm in love with you."

There it was. Out in the open, a secret no longer. The blood was rushing through his veins fiercer than ever, and he faintly realized that the whole matter was entirely outside of his control now. She stared at him, frozen, her eyes gone wide. "I don't understand." Her voice was low, and her lips barely parted as she spoke.

He didn't know how to explain it to her. He hardly understood, himself. But he made a valiant effort just the same. "I meant what I said after Malacath's shrine. You are most exhausting person I have ever met." Her eyes narrowed, and she glared at him with a baleful expression laced with something like disapproval as he struggled to clarify. "I've always pushed myself to be the best—at my studies, at magic—but quite honestly, I never had to push particularly hard." She raised an eyebrow. "And for someone like me…" He hesitated. "Well, being pushed by an outside force is entirely unfamiliar—and unwelcome."

"What exactly are you trying to say here, Ichabod?" she asked tiredly.

"I'm saying that you're that outside force." At her frown, he quickly continued. "You've dragged me into so much turmoil, but somewhere in the thick of it, I've…come alive, I suppose. You may push me out of my comfort zone—but I think I've come closer to realizing my full potential because of it."

A bemused smirk crossed her face. "Are you saying I complete you?" she asked dryly.

"No." He shook his head. "I'm saying when I was younger, I had few friends because nobody my age cared that much about magic. Now, it's because I prefer to be selective when it comes to choosing my company."

She rolled her eyes. "You _do_ realize how arrogant you sound right now?" she muttered, but he detected the faintest hint of a sparkle in her eye.

"I do mean it," he insisted. "Also, I think you keep me grounded—which, if I'm completely honest with myself, is something I desperately need." But his attempt at self-deprecation seemed to fall short, as her smile slowly faded.

"I don't think I'm your type, Ichabod," she said softly. "You're the best and brightest of the Mages Guild—and I never even finished at the Chapel. I can't discuss conjuration theories with you. I can't partner with you on research. The kind of power you toss around so causally I could never even hope to wield."

"What does that have to do with anything?" he asked. "Just because you're not a conjurer? I do have friends in other schools, you know. Besides, that was never a problem before."

"I'm saying we're on different levels," she said firmly. A sudden, horrible thought suddenly occurred to him: was he being rejected? Everything she had said since his declaration had been ambiguous, evasive. She was letting him down easy, he suddenly realized. He broke eye contact, his face growing hot. He had never felt so foolish.

"You're the godsdamned Champion of Cyrodiil," he muttered. But to his astonishment, she burst into near-hysterical laughter. His gaze shooting back up to her, he stared nervously at her as she cackled.

"Yes," she choked out. "I'm the Champion of Cyrodiil. A _Hero_." And to his utter shock, tears began to appear in her eyes. "Do you want to know what it's like to be a Hero? A pawn of the gods, hurtled down a path of destiny with no say in the matter, unable to see a single step ahead. You know what it's like when it's over?" She dashed furiously at her eyes. "Nothing," she spat out bitterly. "When the gods are finished with you, you're cast aside. Just like that. Done." She glared at him with reddened eyes. "There's nothing left for you afterward, and all you can do is try to pick up the pieces." Her face wobbled, and she quickly looked away. "If only Jauffre were here," she muttered. "If only he could tell me there's some meaning to it, some reason behind it all. But I suppose that's part of it, that he's gone."

Ichabod didn't know what to say. Swallowing hard, he decided to push his luck. "You say you're trying to make something of the pieces," he said carefully. It was a shot in the dark, but he _had_ to know. "Let me remind you, there _was _something between us once."

Her head shot up, and she fixed him with a withering glare. "That was before I was a mother," she snapped. The pounding in Ichabod's chest—the pounding that had been near-constant since he left the City—abruptly stopped. She'd agreed to it. It hadn't all been in his imagination—she had felt it, too. But then her expression shifted, the anger fading, her eyes narrowing. "And before you were a candidate for Arch-Mage," she added dryly.

Ichabod winced. "You heard about that?" he muttered.

"That necromancers tried to take down the Mages Guild? That _you _led the defense? That you were named Master-Wizard and given a seat on the Council? And that Traven is planning on stepping down and you're one of the top picks to replace him? Yes." She nodded triumphantly, and he once again felt his face flush.

"I don't see what that has to do with us, though," he countered, and her smirk faded.

"Ichabod, I…" Her voice trailed off. "It couldn't work between us," she said quietly, nervously chewing the inside of her lip. "Believe me, I wish it could, but I've…I've made choices, and living with their consequences is part of the price to pay." She glanced away, almost guiltily, and Ichabod narrowed his eyes.

"Is it because of Martin?" he asked. She winced, but didn't meet his eyes. "Because if that's the case, I can respect that." Martin _had_ been his friend—and Bosriel was his daughter. It was something that couldn't be shrugged aside—he understood that. "Or is it because of whatever happened six years ago?"

That got her attention. Her gaze snapped to his, but her expression was blank, guarded. "I forgot. You've been talking with my brother." Something crossed her face then—the tiniest flicker of fear. "What all has he said?"

Ichabod got the sense he was on unstable ground here. "That he hadn't seen or heard from you in five years. That no one in your family had," he said carefully. "But Lily—whatever it was, I…" he couldn't believe he was saying this. "I don't care.

Her eyes flickered shut. "Ichabod," she sighed.

"I mean it. I don't." It was a half-truth—the tiniest of lies, if you squinted—but if winning her over meant never knowing, he could live with that. He would have to. Besides, there was a growing feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him he didn't _want_ to know—not _really_. "Besides," he continued, "whatever it is, I'm sure it wasn't summoning a Daedric Prince and subsequently killing all your friends." He'd finally worked up the courage to go poking through the Mystic Archives, and when he'd found Martin's story, he'd sat in a stunned silence for at least an hour. Nothing could have prepared him for the truth—that the gentle, noble priest-turned-Emperor he'd known had been a Daedra worshiper—and a murderer.

Similarly, nothing could have prepared him for her reaction. "Why did you just say that?" Fear flashed across her face, and she actually began backing away from him. "Ichabod, why did you say that?"

"He told me." It was the only explanation needed. She froze, and her expression faded from fear to wariness. "He was a conjurer, too, you know. We talked a great deal about the subject while you were…away. He was impressed by my Dremora trick, and when I offered to teach him, he refused. He said interactions with daedra weren't good for him, and when I asked why, he directed me to the Mystic Archives." Lily's face had gone blank again, arms hanging numbly by her sides. "He was one of the greatest people I've ever known," he continued quietly. "He was kind and gracious and courageous, and in the end, he saved us all. I don't know what he was like before I met him, but in the end, it didn't matter. Despite what he did, he redeemed himself, wouldn't you agree? _That_ is what he's remembered for."

The most peculiar expression had come over Lily's face—a mixture of sadness and surprise something far away. "True," she said faintly. "But people can't change their true nature. They can only redefine it." She shook her head, and looked up to meet his gaze. "The reason Martin and I fell apart was the same reason we were together in the first place," she said. Ichabod couldn't help but squirm; he wasn't so sure he wanted to hear this. "We were the same, he and I. And when two people are that much alike, the differences between them count for so much more." She took a few steps forward. "With Martin, at least he had a semi-noble reason for it all. He was like you, actually. For him, it was intellectual curiosity, the pursuit of knowledge. For me…" She trailed off. "It was always about pure, blind rage."

"Then why go through all you did?" he asked. "Why even take that first step into Oblivion?" She stared at him as though he'd sprouted another head.

"Because I _had_ to," she said, as if it were the most obvious fact in the world. "The invasion happened because of _me_, remember? I had to make up for it, I couldn't just…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "I know who I am, Ichabod," she said. "I'm doing my best, but some things never change. And that's not fair to you."

"And_ I_ know who you are, too," he said. He could feel himself losing patience, but he forced himself to keep his cool. _Break the pattern_. "Lily, I wouldn't _want_ you to change. Haven't you heard a single thing I've said?" But she only stared at him with a terse, tentative expression. He sighed. "Is this still about what happened in 433?" he pressed. "You think it would come between us?

Her expression faded to one of amazement. "Ichabod, it already _has_," she said. "Six years ago, in the streets in front of Claudius Arcadia's house. Remember?" she chided. And he winced at the memory. "I have a temper, and I cling to my ideals. I'm impulsive. I lash out without thinking, and people get _hurt_." She took a deep breath. "And now, I'm responsible for a _child_. I'm supposed to see her to adulthood, and I'm _terrified_ that I'm going to mess this up."

"You even said it yourself: some things you can't change, but you can redefine them," Ichabod reminded. "You can work with what you've been given. It doesn't have to be that way."

But she gave a small smile, her eyes filled with sadness. "I see things, Ichabod," she said quietly. "We could be great together—but we wouldn't be. We would tear each other to pieces." She had had a vision of the two of them together? Did she know what he would say before he'd even arrived here? And then another horrible though—had she already made up her mind before he'd said a word?

"Some things _do _change," he said quietly. "I know _I _have. I'm nothing like the man I was two years ago. And if you can't change what you see—why keep Bosriel off the throne?"

She stared at him wordlessly, something in her eyes darkening. Suddenly, he was afraid he'd gone too far. "I don't know," she whispered. "But I only have so much to give, Ichabod. You would only be disappointed." And then he recognized the unreadable emotion in her face—not anger, but fear. The same fear that had been churning in him since he first mounted Pamela that morning.

Two years ago—a year ago—_months_ ago, this would be the moment he reached the limits of his patience. He would have gone cold and evasive, she would have said something spiteful, and they both would have walked away in a rage, not speaking for at least several months. But that was then. Now, she stood less than a foot away, not meeting his eyes. And he was breaking the pattern. Divines help him, this might be the last thing he'd ever do.

The nonstop thundering of his heart nearly came to a standstill as he reached for her. Even as his fingers brushed along her jaw, even as his lips crashed against hers, he was cringing, fully prepared for her to shove him away. But he was abruptly yanked off balance as her arm snaked around his neck, pulling him closer to her as her hands tangled in his hair, gripped the fabric of his robe.

The kiss was long and fierce, and he lost himself entirely in it. The era may have faded and the next begun; the world itself might have died and been reborn, and he wouldn't have noticed. When they finally broke apart, his heart was thumping against his ribs again, but the warmth surging through his veins more than made up for it.

"Ichabod," she sighed. They were still merely inches apart. He could even see tendrils of red and green bleeding into each other in the eerie amber irises of her eyes. "This doesn't change the fact that I have a daughter to raise," she whispered, pressing her forehead against his. "And you have a guild to save." He pulled away, frowning slightly, but her eyes were earnest. "I heard about what's happening in the Elder Council," she murmured. "That they're trying to make the guild take the fall for the Crisis."

"I don't _know_ that I'll be Arch-Mage," he feebly protested. "I'm the newest member of the Council—not to mention the youngest and the least experienced."

"But they need you." She smiled. "They'll come to see that."

"Is that something you saw in your visions?" he asked wryly. But she shook her head.

"It's something I _know_," she replied, and then she kissed him again. She was so warm in his arms—not fragile as she'd felt as she mourned in Lake Rumare, or ironclad as she'd been in her armor. Just solid and filled with energy and _alive_—and for those few fleeting moments, she was _his_.

A sharp cry suddenly pierced the afternoon, and Lily abruptly pulled away with a sigh, glancing upward at an open window. "Bosriel's awake," she said reluctantly. "I have to go get her, or Melisande will try to put her back down with one of her awful potions." She rolled her eyes.

"I understand," he said. "Only…" He trailed off hesitantly, and her features softened as she touched his hand.

"She won't be a baby forever," she said. "And things with the guild will stabilize." And he knew she was giving her answer, or as close to one as she would ever give—at least for the time being. "And when that day comes, I'll be here." She suddenly reached up and took his face in her hands. "I'm not promising anything," she clarified. "And I'm not asking you to wait for me. I'm just saying…"

"…that this isn't the time." A sigh welled up in him, but he bit it back, allowing it to die on his lips. "I understand."

The crying grew more insistent, and a woman's voice floated down from the window. Lily grimaced. "I have to go," she said quickly. She took a deep breath. "Melisande!" she shouted. "Leave her be! I'm coming to get her!" She bent and lifted the jug of water, and then hurried toward the door. But on the threshold, she paused. "I'll be seeing you, Ichabod," she said quickly. And then she disappeared inside.

He stood there for a moment, once again staring at a closed door. But as he turned and walked back to Pamela, the chaos within him was gone. She wasn't his, he mused as he gave Pamela her long-awaited drink. She'd promised him nothing. He wasn't even sure that she loved him. But as he rode south, the evening sun on his back, he found himself breathing easier than he had in a long time. He didn't know if he'd be Arch-Mage, but even with the gates of Oblivion closed behind them, darkness still loomed ahead for the entire Empire—the Guild included. But beyond the darkness, he could finally catch a hint of something else—something that tasted remarkably like hope. And the Master-Wizard smiled as night fell on the Great Forest.


	57. Epilogue: The Champion

**A/N: I just wanted to take a moment to thank everyone who's reviewed, followed, favorited, or even just clicked through and read this story over the years. The support is much appreciated, and I'm so glad that I got to share this story with all of you.**

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Epilogue: The Champion

Sun's Dusk is appropriately named. The sky above the Great Forest was a low orange, sending long shadows stretching across the road. Tei eased up on the reins as his horse sidestepped with a nervous snort, eyeing the rustling at the side of the road. "Settle down," he told him. "It's just a deer." But Bartholomew snorted again, throwing his head up as he surged forward. Tei rolled his eyes, tightening the reins again and slowing the stallion to a trot. "Can't exactly say I blame you, though," he muttered. "I'm not terribly keen on this myself."

It'd been years since he'd been home. He could almost always find an excuse: he had a job, a friend was in some trouble, or he was travelling. But this time, there really had been no way out. _It's the Warriors Festival,_ his mother had written in her most recent letter. _We're going to be giving Asgar and Soris their first swords. And besides, it's Bosriel's fiftieth—you don't want to miss that, do you?_ In truth, he'd considered skipping out of this one, but deep down he knew she was right. But it'd been an encounter a few days ago that had sealed the deal.

The thought of that brought a smirk to his face. He'd finally met the Listener—the great and glorious Listener. It had all started the week before, when he went to meet with Boact. It had been chaotic from the start, seeing as they were meeting in Five Claws Lodge rather than within the safety of the Sanctuary. However, Sasha and Morbash were in the middle of another argument, and Percius had just been joining in as he'd walked through the door. Boact had then slipped silently from the shadows and suggested an alternate—quieter—meeting place.

So they'd gone to Five Claws, sipping mead in a corner while Tei filled Boact in on the details of his latest contract in a low voice. Boact had nodded at all the right places, yet seemed distracted all the while. Tei had thought it to be due to the public atmosphere, but then Boact had commented that there'd been a Hand meeting called, and Tei's late return had put him behind schedule. "Why don't you come along?" he'd suddenly offered. "You're part of the Hand now." And although Tei had tried to graciously decline, the Speaker had been insistent. "You do realize that you're now my successor. Might as well start learning the terms of the trade now." And so they had ridden for Anvil together.

As it turned out, he wasn't allowed to attend the meeting itself, but he'd managed to keep himself occupied wandering around the Sanctuary, chatting with the few inhabitants who weren't training or on contracts. But just as he'd struck up conversation with an overzealous archer, Boact suddenly appeared at his side. "The Listener would like to see you," he'd said, his face stoic. Tei had immediately frowned.

"Why?" he'd asked warily. But Boact had simply smirked.

"The Listener likes to keep tabs on all her assassins," he'd simply said. "She just wants to meet you. Talk about your time with the Brotherhood." So Tei had obliged, trudging up the stairs to the council chamber. It was located in the house above, a surprisingly cheery room flooded with light. But as he'd approached the door, he'd heard voices coming from within.

"I'm sorry to ask on such short notice," the first voice was saying. "But I—I have to go. I have to see her." A pause. "After all these years, I'd…given up hope, but now, to find out she's alive… I don't know what to think." Tei frowned at the soft sound that followed—something strangely akin to a sob. "She has _children_. I'm a _grandmother_."

"Of course, you'll leave right away," a second voice replied. "Is there anything you need for the journey? A horse? A guard? Perhaps I'll get that Silencer of Boact's to wrap up some cheese for you." Tei stiffened as he heard himself refer to—then frowned a little. But the first voice declined.

"No…no, I'll be fine. I just…want to get going as soon as possible."

"Then go. May Sithis walk with you." There was the sound of footsteps, and then the voice spoke again. "And Marisa?"

The footsteps stopped. "Yes, Listener?"

"I'm so very happy for you. I know this day has been a long time coming."

"I know." And there was the smallest of chuckles, accented with another sob. "Thank you, Listener."

The doors were abruptly flung open, and Tei had to leap back to avoid being bowled over by Speaker Dupre. The wiry Breton sailed past him without a moment's glance, but he noticed her sharp, dark eyes were puffy and rimmed with red. His attention was pulled back to the business at hand, however, when there was the sound of a throat being cleared.

"You may enter now, Silencer." Cautiously, he stepped through the doorway only to immediately falter. The Listener stood there, tall in her shapeless dark robes. She wore her hood drawn up, and the lower half of her face was obscured by a mask that matched her robes, but he could feel the burning intensity of her eyes from where he stood.

"Listener." He realized how awed he sounded as he breathed the word. But after all, this was the woman who had exposed the Betrayer, who had reformed the Brotherhood into a daedra-slaying task force during the Oblivion Crisis, who had expanded it into the largest-reaching and fastest-growing criminal operation in the province—perhaps in the Empire itself. A prickle of nerves ran down his spine. Was he supposed to bow or something? "It's an honor to meet you, Listener. My name is—"

"Teinaava. I know," she said Was it his imagination, or had her voice suddenly grown sharp? "Boact's had nothing but praise for your skills." Despite himself, he felt the tips of his ears flush—a fact that did not go unnoticed by the Listener. "Oh, come now, don't be modest," she chided. "I hear you're a great asset to the Leyawiin Sanctuary."

The words only increased the heat in his face, so he abruptly changed the subject. "I'm sorry if I interrupted earlier," he said quickly. "Speaker Boact had told me to go right up." Perhaps he shouldn't have drawn attention to the fact that he'd been eavesdropping, he thought nervously, but the Listener only sighed.

"Yes. Well," she said. "Speaker Dupre has recently discovered a familial connection long thought to be dead. It was imperative that she arrange to make contact without delay." Tei felt his forehead wobble into a frown for the briefest of seconds, but the Listener seemed to take note. "You have some comment on this?" she asked sharply.

Tei swallowed hard. "I don't understand why." He shifted his weight from one foot to another. "As Speaker…shouldn't she want to _avoid_ such contact with civilians?"

The Listener drifted over to the window, staring out into the back garden. "Do you have family, Teinaava?" she asked quietly. Tei felt his frown return.

"Some," he admitted. "But the Brotherhood is my family now." And to his surprise, the Listener actually laughed.

"Yes. We are a unique breed in and of itself." He could hear the smile brimming beneath her words, and he slightly relaxed. "Our bonds are forged in blood and death—not something that's easily severed." She turned back to him. "But family ties are a type of blood bond as well. Don't give up on yours so easily. You'd be surprise what they can endure." He could feel the intensity of her stare boring into him again, and he once more began to feel uncomfortable.

"Even having a long-lost family member turn up and announce that they're an assassin?" he asked skeptically. But the Listener sighed.

"The Dupre family is the future of the Dark Brotherhood," she said. "I have seen it." And Tei's eyes widened slightly. So it was true what they said—that the Listener had a gift for prophecy. "Granted, it would be an unwise move if Marisa were to announce her affiliation on their first meeting. But in time…" She gave a low chuckle. "In time, a new dynasty of dark royalty will arise."

Perhaps that was what started him thinking on the letter from his mother, lying crumpled in the bottom of his pack. But over the next few days, he thought often on the Listener's words: as he grew acquainted with the members of the Anvil Sanctuary, as the Listener herself reviewed combat techniques with him, and as Speaker Dupre returned, bubbling over with joy at finally having met her daughter. And in the end, he'd relented. He'd saddled up Bartholomew and set out for home, despite the apprehension in his stomach and the irritation settling over his shoulders.

He could see the lights of home coming into view as he emerged from the forest, ascending into the Colovian Highlands. His disgruntlement multiplied, but at the same time, the rugged landscape was almost soothing in its familiarity. This was where he'd grown up, this was childhood itself. And whether he like it or not, this was _home_.

There was no one in sight when he reached the stables, which he was grateful for. He always preferred to take care of Bartholomew himself—and besides, the stallion was notoriously aggressive. The poor Leyawiin stablehand, he thought wryly, now refused to go within ten feet of the horse. He made sure to put him in one of the stalls near the end, though, as several of the mares were crowding along the fence, and Bartholomew's nostrils had begun flaring wildly. The last thing he needed was for his horse to accidently impregnate one of the broodmares—that would _really_ set a particular mood on this holiday—and not a pleasant one either.

Inside the front doors, he paused for a moment, just to breath it all in. Things appeared exactly as they'd been since he'd left—had it really been seven years? He was torn from his reverie, however, by the sound of uproarious laughter drifting in from the east wing. Apparently, he thought with a roll of his eyes, his uncle and his brother-in-law had decided to start celebrating early.

"Tei!" He turned his head at the creak of hinges, and suddenly his sister was hurtling toward him, a flurry of red hair and the smell of freshly-baked bread. "I can't believe you came!" She threw her arms around him, and he quickly returned the hug.

"Me either," he admitted, pulling away. "Happy birthday." But she merely rolled her eyes.

"Thanks," she said wryly. "Honestly, I think Mother's making too great a deal out of it. I'm just trying to keep the focus on the twins." She sighed. "Shagrol's been training with them, and he's promised that he'll supervise any time they even _touch_ the swords, but I'm nervous." She gave a small chuckle. "Or maybe I'm just having a hard time accepting that my children are old enough to carry weapons."

Tei laughed. "They'll be fine," he said with a smirk. "They've got you and Hjoldir for parents. They'll be naturals."

"Thank you. I think." Bosriel narrowed her eyes, but a hint of a smile twitched around her mouth. "That _is_ exactly what I'm afraid of, though." Tei rolled his eyes, and she laughed.

"Have you seen Mother and Father yet?" she asked.

Tei shook his head. "I just got here." He could feel his heartbeat accelerate slightly, though, at the thought of facing his parents.

"Well, what are you still standing here for?" his sister chided. "I haven't seen Mother since this morning, but Father's in the hall. You can go on in and see him." She turned away, then paused. "Also tell him we need the wine rack unlocked. I left the twins unsupervised, and with my luck, they've probably already doused the whole kitchen in flour." Tei nodded, and Bosriel swept back in the direction from which she'd come.

He wandered further into the hall, noting the emptiness of the walls. Had his parents taken to selling things due to financial difficulties, he thought with a frown, or was it a matter of safety? Neither option was appealing. But then he heard a murmur of an incantation, and he jumped as bright blue balls of light suddenly blossomed along the walls. Craning around a statue of Akatosh, he caught sight of a figure in a bright blue robe. "Father."

The figure started, jerking around only for his eyes to widen. "Tei! You've come back!" His father swiftly glided over. "Your mother said she'd written to you, but I didn't think…"

Tei squirmed. "I've been away too long," he said, dropping his gaze. It was true, of course—but it wasn't as though he hadn't had his reasons. Leave it to his father, though, to make him feel guilty. "What are you doing here?"

His father spun toward the light display, briefly clapping his hands together. "Preparing for Saturalia," he announced.

Tei frowned. "A month early?"

"Yes, well, last year the twins complained that there weren't enough. The display I have planned for this year is far more complicated, so I've begun designing it early." He chuckled. "If this doesn't satisfy them, then there really is no pleasing them." Tei joined in the laughter, but then his father sobered. "I'm glad to see you, Tei," he said quietly. "How have you been? Your work is satisfactory, I presume?"

"It is." Tei nodded. "I've gotten to travel to some incredible places. I was in Morrowind a couple years back." Briefly—he'd been in Narsis less than a day for a contract. But at that, his father—always a scholar at heart—leaned forward eagerly.

"Were you? What was it like?" he asked. And for a few minutes, Tei told him a little about the exotic creatures, the unique architecture, the sight of the ash clouds billowing along the northern horizon. His father shook his head. "I can't imagine what that must have been like. I always wanted to travel there." His eyes glowed briefly, and with a twist of sadness, Tei suddenly realized how old his father looked. For an Altmer only in his seventies, he was too worn, too tired, too stooped under the burden of keeping his Consortium of Mages out of the eyes of the Empire. His father had sacrificed much for life's goals, he realized, had risked everything to ensure the survival of the practice of magic.

But then his father smiled, some the weariness fading from his expression. "You should go see your mother," he admonished. "She's up in the south tower. She'll be so delighted to see you."

Tei sighed. The idea of confronting his mother had been the one piece of his return that he'd been dreading. "I'll head up there now, I guess," he said. "I'll see you at dinner, then? Also—I'm supposed to tell you to go unlock the wine rack."

His father nodded. "Of course." He paused. "It's good to have you home, son." Tei uncomfortably nodded, and began making his way out of the room as the blue lights faded.

He found his mother atop the south tower, gazing out over the forest. As the trapdoor thumped shut behind him, she turned to face him. "Ah, Tei. There you are."

"You don't sound surprised to see me," he remarked, making his way over and leaning up against the wall beside her. Over the years, she'd written to him constantly, inviting him to countless family celebrations—which he'd all ignored. For the briefest of seconds, a smile flashed across her face.

"I had a good feeling about this one." She shifted her gaze back out toward the sunset, and silence fell between them. It was all Tei could do to bite back a sigh. She'd made such a fuss about him coming home, and now she was ignoring him. And given the bitter argument they'd had all those years ago…

"Mother," he finally ventured. Her sharp amber eyes drifted over to him. "Are you not going to say anything?"

"What should I say?" She raised an eyebrow. "Clearly, the fact that you're here says you've come to understand." She glanced away. "I simply want to enjoy the silence."

He frowned. "Understand _what_?"

His mother gave a long sigh, tilting her face skyward. "Teinaava, understand that all I've ever wanted for you and your sister is for you to have normal, happy lives." A sardonic chuckle escaped her. "Of course, that hasn't quite gone according to plan. Here we are, barricaded out in the wilderness trying to avoid the Empire." She shook her head, shifting her gaze back to him. "But this is your father's life's work. And I would never disagree with the pursuit of knowledge—especially when this provides a safe environment for it to take place. Beyond that, though…" For a moment, her face softened. "I'd envisioned a different path for you, Tei," she said quietly. And he once again felt a surge of guilt—this time accompanied by a prickle of fear.

"You and I are so much alike," she continued. "I'd always hoped that you would choose a different path. Everyone has so much respect for you, though. Despite everything, you're kind and patient, and _merciful_—and Tei, that is such a rare trait in this line of work. People tend to underestimate its value because of that. But it's crucial. I would even go so far as to say it's essential. If you desire to be truly great at what you do, that is. It's a contradiction, to be certain—but as I'm sure you've figured out, that goes with the territory."

She was looking at him with the strangest expression, and he felt a cold sweat break out along his spine. "I am so proud of you," she said. "I need you to know that, Tei." It was eerie—his chaotic mother was speaking quietly, plainly, directly—neither dark and furious nor merry and bright. And there was something all too specific about her words.

"You know?" he whispered. She nodded slowly, and his heart froze in his chest. "For how long?"

"Since before Boact's first visit." His eyes sprung wide open, his head snapping in her direction.

"Before? Then…then you…" And he drew in a deep breath of shock and comprehension. "Listener."

She eyed him sharply. "We're at home, in private," she said. "There's no need to address me as such."

"Does Father know?" His mother gave a snort.

"There's not much your father doesn't know about me," she said. "But some things even he can't handle." Her voice hardened. "And I expect to keep it that way."

He nodded, sagging back against the wall as his head spun with questions. "I don't even know where to begin," he moaned. "Mother, I…I…"

"There's no need, Teinaava," she said, her tone ringing with dismissal. "If you like, you may arrange a meeting through Boact, and I will answer any questions you have. But at the moment, we are at home, and our family is just inside. The focus here is your sister and the twins."

"I don't understand, though…you were so angry…" It had been one thing when he thought she simply objected to him becoming a mercenary, but she'd known he was joining the Brotherhood—_her_ Brotherhood…

"Like I said. I wanted better for you. I lashed out, and I am sorry." She was once again watching the darkening sky. "Afterward, I wanted to apologize—to explain, but you ignored all my letters, and it would have been unwise to reveal myself in any other way." She shook her head. "As the Listener's son, you had to make your own way. Your fellow assassins would not have thought too highly of you otherwise."

"I had no idea," he murmured, burying his head in his hands. "All these years, and I never…"

"You wouldn't have." His mother jostled his arm, and when he looked up, the Listener had disappeared. That familiar, playful smirk he'd known all his life had spread across her face. "I hold my cards close. You'll learn to do the same." Her voice was reverberating with its own energy, and the stark clarity of her revelation had faded along with the sun. "But today, my daughter is half a century old, and tomorrow, my grandsons become warriors." She crouched and threw open the trapdoor. "Tonight, we celebrate." And she disappeared into the tower.

Tei stood still for a moment, secrets still swirling in the air around him, those revealed—and those left untold. He suspected he still didn't know all of his family's truths—nor all of their lies. But he was the assassin son of the head of the Consortium of Mages—and the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood. With that lineage, secrets were bound to come with the territory, and perhaps the line between truths and lies was more blurred than he realized.

But still, it felt as though he'd released a burden he didn't know he was carrying. All of the tension between him and his mother—all of the conflict—had somehow been swept away. He had so many questions, still—but at last, answers lay within reach rather than entirely out of sight. And after years of exile, he was finally home. He had his father back, his sister, his nephews. He had his uncle, his grandmother, even his obnoxious brother-in-law. He had all the mages who'd practically helped raise him. And he still had the Brotherhood, as well—Boact and Sasha and Morbash and all the rest…and now the Listener. The great and glorious Listener, who'd exposed the Betrayer, saw the Brotherhood through the Oblivion Crisis, and expanded it into the _second_ most loyal and lasting family in the Empire. He'd follow the Listener anywhere.

He took a deep breath, and followed his mother into the tower.

* * *

**A/N: And that's a wrap! After almost four years, I can't believe Shriller is finally over. Writing this has been so much fun, and it's sort of bittersweet to say goodbye to it.**

**Now. Concerning plans for revision. I'm going to let this story just stew here for a while, and get some distance from it before I go back through and start looking at how to improve it. However, this won't be happening for quite a while.**

**In the meantime, I'm currently writing a Dark Brotherhood story focusing on Antoinetta, and I'll be starting a Skyrim one soon. If you've enjoyed Shriller or my work in general, I hope you'll take a look at those.**

**I think that's all, and so thus concludes this final author's note. Again, thank you all so much. You've been a wonderful audience, and I hope you've enjoyed following along on Lily and Ichabod's journey as much as I have :)**


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